Curtis

Slmll & I'M

SIR HENRY CURTIS-BENNETT. K.C.

“CURTIS”

The Life of

Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett, K.C.

BY

ROLAND WILD

AND

DEREK CURTIS-BENNETT

WITH FOREWORD BY ST. JOHN HUTCHINSON, K.C*

WITH 23 PHOTOGRAVURE ILLUSTRATIONS

CASSELL
and Company Ltd.
London, Toronto, Melbourne
and Sydney

FOREWORD

By St. John Hutchinson, K.C.

I have been asked to write a short foreword to this
most interesting book. I have gladly accepted, as I
feel, having been in daily contact for nearly twenty years
with Curtis, that I had more opportunity of knowing him
well than perhaps anyone else. To be in chambers with
a man, especially as his tenant, enables one to see him as
he really is; it makes him one’s friend for life, one’s dear
acquaintance, or merely one’s landlord. It made Curtis
my friend for life. I therefore feel that it is important for
those who did not have my advantages to try and see the
personal side of the man about whom this book has been
written.

I cannot help feeling that the real clue to Curtis was
his simplicity. By simplicity I do not mean guMessn^ss—
I mean the real simplicity of a person without complexes
or great subtlety. Curtis was a very emotional man,
easily moved, as most simple men are. He was able to
laugh uproariously at himself and to see himself as ridicu¬
lous—the most endearing of qualities, which only the simple
possess. With his intimate friends Curtis was the most
amusing of companions. A case ends suddenly, he may
have done a successful “ Curtis ” (you will find in the
book what this is) and will be happy at the success. We

v

F O REWORD

go off together to the Savoy Grill, and the fun begins.
Curtis loved food—he would hardly admit it—and often
have I laughed at his description of a “ little meal ” (he
loved describing meals), two invariable concomitants of
which were a sole Walewska and a Chateaubriand. We
would go in; he would be happy when Manetta rushed
forward to welcome him, pleased when the waiters knew
him. He would order a “ little meal ” and a whisky and
soda; he was not a big drinker. He would send for the
page-boy and order two stalls at a musical show—it always
had to be a musical show. Many of us would never go
to a matinee unless it was Shakespeare done in some
peculiar way, Tchekov, or some very heavy modem. I
never connected matinees with pleasure after I was sixteen,
except when I went with Curtis. He liked stalls in the
front row—both of us being large, it was a great help if
there were three—and there, with long cigars in our mouths,
we were to be found.

To many legal friends this appeared a terrible debauch.

I think it was his sense of humour and our companionship
that made it such fun. Curtis never minded being teased.

I remember once we were going down to the country in
his open Rolls-Royce. It was a coldish day, and we had
tucked ourselves well in with coats and rugs, and had our
cigars in our mouths, when, just as he started, a stroll
newspaper boy got in front of the car. Curtis roared at
''him—the boy stopped still and shouted to a still small er
lad. Bill, come over quick and look at these two fat old

a Rolls-Royce.” No one could have enjoyed
, this more than Curtis.

When term ended he was at his happiest. He would

vi

get into his car, drive down to Folkestone, and his delight
became almost an ecstacy if, on arrival in France, because
he was Curtis-Bennett, he got the privilege of getting his
car off before all other cars. Then he would sit back and
start along the straight French roads. Many a time have
I been on those trips with him; he was a splendid com¬
panion. He loved France. No scholar of the language,
he appreciated that urbane and delicious civilization that
France alone possesses among the nations of the world.
He loved the long straight roads; he was a fast driver,
but the best and safest I have ever driven with. He
loved the villages; he loved running along by the side
of the large serene “ impressionist ” rivers of France.
Then, near lunch-time, fresh interest would be aroused,
and no one knew better how to enjoy the pleasure of
sitting in a charming Place, while a carefully chosen lunch
was being prepared. He was so interested in the people,
in the old men playing dominoes, the old ladies with their
chickens in baskets; and when the maitre d'hotel remem¬
bered him with affection (it was surprising how many
simple people remembered him with affection) his cup of
delight was full. He did not particularly like Paris or the
large fashionable towns (except, perhaps, Monte Carlo and
Biarritz for a short time); it was the real France, the
France of the peasantry, of the cornfields, of the vineyards,
that really appealed to his affection. He never forgot a
face, and he never forgot a road; if he had driven in a
district once he wanted no map. And when it was all
over he would return rested and happy to England, and
the only regret he would feel was that he was not just
setting out.

FOREWORD

Curtis loved recognition; he liked waiters to know
Tiitn^ and cabmen, railwaymen and men on boats. He
also liked famous men to acknowledge him, and no judge
would have enjoyed the trumpets on Assize more than he.
This was not vanity—he was without vanity—but a simple
living for the outward trappings of popularity and success.
His success meant much to him, but by far the deepest
feeling in his life, as I very well know, was his love for
his son.

He was essentially English ; he was very fond of dogs
and of watching cricket. He used to have teams down
to Boreham, but what I remember best is going to Lord’s
with him when a Test Match was in progress ; I took the
sandwiches and he the wine—a distribution entirely to my
liking.

I feel that those who read these words will wonder
where the brilliant advocate appears. Curtis was not a
typically successful K.C., but anyone who watched him
in the Courts, sat behind him as a junior, or looked at
the result of his cases, could not doubt that in fact he was
a pre-eminently successful one; and any policeman, doctor
or other person who had been cross-examined by bim
would bear willing testimony to the ordeal it had proved.

This book will show the great advocate. I have only
tried to give you a glimpse of the man. Marshall-Hall
and Curtis were great personalities in very different ways,
but with me and many others there still exists a feeling
of loss when we enter the Courts at the Old Bailey that
seem empty without his voice, or sit in those seats at the
London Sessions from which we had hoped often to watch
him, or go to the different Licensing Courts, which seem

viii

FOREWOR D

more drab and less exciting now that we no longer hear
the voice that drew so many licences from almost hypnotized
benches.

Personally, I hope at times to pick up this book and catch
a faint echo of that voice, or get a vague glance at that
burly form that meant so much, so very much, to me during
twenty-five years at the Bar.

IX

CONTENTS

CHAP. PAGE

1. The Finest Profession .r

2 . Early Days.14

3. A Thousand a Year.24

4. “ Doing a Curtis ”.36

5. Wartime .47

6. Secret Service.63

7. “Taking Silk”.80

8. In the First Flight.101

9. The Greatest Years (i) .1x7

10. The Greatest Years (2).139

n. The Greatest Years (3).158

12. True Stories.168

13. A Barrister in the House.176

14. Great Murder Trials.195

15. When Curtis Talked .214

16. “Hyde Park Cases”. .231

17. Strange Cases.246

18. Laugh and Grow Fat .259

19. Great Acquittals.269

20. “ A New Life ”.291

Index. 3 ° 5

xi

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

FACING

PAGE

Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett, K.C. . . . Frontispiece

Harry, in 1887; in 1902; “A New Crack,” 1901 . . 16

Motoring ; the Tri-car of 1905; the Rolls-Royce of 1921;
the La Salle, 1936.17

Called to the Bar ; at the Admiralty ; Silk, 1919 . 64

With “ Marshall ” after the Fahmy Trial ; with “ Jimmy ”
Cassels at Lewes.65

Murder Trial Interlude ; Sir Ernest Pollock, Mr. Justice
Darling, Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett, at Hereford,
April, 1922.128

Herbert Rouse Armstrong ; Jean Pierre Yaquier . . 129

Bywaters, Edith Thompson, Her Husband . . .160

A Dominating Personality in Court . . . .161

Improbable ; Mr. Norman Birkett, K.C. is cross-examined
by Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett, K.C. ; cartoon by George
Whitelaw.192

Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett decides to stick to Golf,
cartoon by George Whitelaw.193

“ Cherchez les Femmes ”; Learned Counsel studying the
Fitzroy Case “ in situ ”; cartoon by C. H. M.. . 240

The Indian Elephant, or Curtis-Bennett; cartoon by
George Whitelaw.241

With his Mother, Emily, Lady Curtis-Bennett, and Mr.
Freke Palmer.272

Chairman of the County of London Sessions .

xiii

• 2 7J

T he authors are indebted to a great number of Sir
Henry Curtis-Bennett’s friends and acquaintances for
their assistance.

Boreham Lodge,

Essex.

April, 1937.

xiv

“ CURTIS ”

CHAPTER I
The Finest Profession

T o many thousands of men and women who knew
Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett only by name and repute,
the impression of him that remained in the mind most
strongly was that of a stout though agile figure, genial
and impressive, from whose lips there came phrases that
ranged the two extremes—tragedy and comedy.

Defender of murderers; after-dinner wit; emphatic
pleader for the lives of over fifty men and women who
stood in the dock under the shadow of the gallows; suave
and boyish jester who turned to himself and his figure for
his inevitable “ little story.” In public, the care-free and
extravagant bon viveur and theatrical first-nighter; in private,
an always emotional man who could not rid his mind of
the tragedies that he had seen pass before him.

Even the increasing weight that was a jest on his lips
as he died, he knew to be a tragedy. He was caught in
a vicious circle; his heart prevented him frorh taking
exercise, lack of exercise added to his girth and that, in
turn, affected his heart. He hid that knowledge, and,
encouraged by every public speaker who referred to him,

I B

CURTIS

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9 9

Curtis-Bennett capitalized his misfortune and made it into
a joke for Court and Congress.

As if in character for this man of many opposites, he
chose to become adept, in his youth, in the sport that
•would appear to be least appropriate for a man of his
build. Cycle-racing was the sport at which he excelled,
later to be replaced by the enthusiasm of a pioneer for
motoring. But in 1900, when he had passed from Radley
to Trinity College, Cambridge, he was a tall, slim figure,
the. aquiline nose and the high forehead giving him good,
looks of an unusual kind. Early school-days had been
.marked by occasional brilliance, but when (like all great
men) he ran away from his preparatory school with his
younger brother, and arrived forlorn and penniless in
London, he was too upset by childish adversity to be sent
back. Radley brought him few prizes during the two
years he was there, and when he was up at Cambridge
he had his mind only on the near future when he would
wear wig and gown. His father was then Magistrate at
Marylebone (later to be Chief Magistrate at Bow Street)
and it was fairly obvious which way his steps would turn.
His parents were not wealthy, and he had the further
knowledge that whatever material success he was to have
would be by his own making.

His father was the youngest son of the vicar of Kelvedon
in Essex, and came of a family which, for nearly 200 years,
held various benefices in that county. At the Bar he had
had a considerable practice though not in the criminal courts,
and became a Magistrate in 1886 and presided in turn at
West London, Marylebone, Westminster and Bow Street,
and at the end of his life was the best-known Magistrate on

2

THE FINEST PROFESSION

the Bench, having raised the position of Chief Magistrate
to a very high standard. Unlike his son he was a slim
man and with his white curly hair and good looks bore
striking resemblance to the late Lord Asquith. But before
bis death in his sixty-seventh year, he became the object
of threats from militant suffragettes, who went so far as
to attempt to throw him over Beachy Head and sent him
a bomb disguised as a cigar-box. For the last months of
his life, indeed, he was always followed by two detectives.

The cycle-racing made Curtis-Bennett a minor hero,
for it was a sport then more popular at the Universities,
and earned a half-blue. After winning the University
50-mile championship from scratch, the mile and the
5-mile race, and beating a track record at Sheen and a
tandem record at the Crystal Palace, he gained his Blue
in July, 1900, and was acclaimed in the national press as
a “ new crack who might revive the glories of University
racing.”

In 1901 he was in the Association Football trials, but
failed to get into the Cambridge Team. And in 1902
he was captain of Cambridge University Cycling Club,
rode in all the big meetings at Norwich, the Crystal Palace,
Manchester and Sheen, and won the four-miles race in
the inter-Varsity sports. The footlights provided another
interest, but both amateur dramatics and the race-track
were soon to be forgotten. His diaries show a frequent
attendance at the Cambridge Assizes, and when he spent
his vacations at Lexham Gardens with his parents, he
records a diligent attendance at the Old Bailey, at the
chambers of Mr. Arthur Hutton, for whom he was to
“ devil,” and at his father’s Court. Less serious were

3

CURTIS

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the holidays at Kelvedon Vicarage, in Essex, where his
grandfather was vicar for thirty years.

D uring those early days, Curtis-Bennett’s diaries were
models of discretion. Perhaps the mind of the born
lawyer was revealed in his desire merely to record the
facts of his journeys and the precise time-table of meals,
excursions and withdrawals to bed. Certainly they were
not written for posterity, but he had made a habit that he
kept through life and he always averred that he was saving
himself trouble. Not in a single entry, however, did he
reveal what was in his mind and how the events of his
world affected the hopes and fears of an ambitious young
man who had decided to become a lawyer. He was
completely emotionless with a pen in his hand, and while
his brain was crowded with thoughts of his own future,
he committed to these pages only the matter-of-fact details
of his comings and goings.

Curtis-Bennett found himself ushered into the legal
profession by willing and ever-helping hands. The family
records, however, showed no ancestor for many genera¬
tions in the “ finest profession in the world ” and indeed,
there had been few breaks in the line of Bennetts who were
country clergymen. His father took the name “ Curtis ”
as a hyphenated addition to the surname, because there
were two “ Henry Bennetts ” practising at the Bar, and
confusion resulted. The Essex churchyards are full of
tombstones with the name of Bennett, and Curtis in later
years made a hobby of visiting them. Further back this
branch of the Bennett family sprang from the Benetts of
Pyt House, Wilts, where they have lived since at least early
in the twelfth century.

4

THE FINEST PROFESSION

Twice during his life did he think he was ruined. And
though his career, set down in terms of figures, was one
that would encourage any young men with imagination
and industry to choose the Law, he was often worried,
2nd hid real anxiety behind a care-free spendthrift gesture
that deceived all his friends.

London was a lonely place, even for one who had
relatives and friends. Having taken his degree in 1900,
Curtis-Bennett experienced some lack of resolution, did
not relish the additional months of work that he would
have to settle down to before he achieved his ambition.
His diary reveals a certain haphazardness, as if he were
trying to kill time. The Earl’s Court Exhibition was on,
and every night his steps would be in that direction,
either by himself or with his brother. His father con¬
ducted him to the Courts, to dinners given to Her Majesty’s
Judges, and to dinner in Middle Temple Hall. He still
trained on the race-track at Sheen or Mortlake, but time
hung heavily on his hands, and he found ample leisure
to walk down to chambers. But he could only taste the
scent of battle from afar; at times it was too tantalizing
and he escaped to propel a solitary punt on the Thames.
There is very little incident to fill up the page in the diary,
and his pen strays languidly downward with the bare
account of lonely journeys on foot across London. While
in the Temple he saw hurrying clerks and worried bar¬
risters—and envied them: in Court he watched the
wonderful machinery of which he would soon be a part;
meanwhile, he went to the Exhibition with Noel, his
younger brother.

There were times when he wondered whether it was

5

wise for him to follow the career that had been chosen
for him. Often he thought of trying his chance at com¬
merce, thinkin g that when he had found a niche for
himself he might stay in it, comfortable and secure, rather
than risk the terrific adventure of the Bar. He knew all
the pitfalls ahead; he knew that for years he might be
in the position of waiting for briefs, sitting the days out
in chambers. In commerce, he could at least be active
and scout for work; as a barrister, the slightest sign of
invitation to a solicitor, even a casual suggestion of lunch
with a friend who was on the other side of the legal fence,
might have the most dire consequences.

Curtis-Bennett never confessed that he did at one time
actually take steps to find himself a safe job in the City.
There are good reasons, however, to suppose that he did
offer himself as a salaried employee of a firm controlled
by an acquaintance. That the suggestion was not shock¬
ing to him is shown at a later period, when he nearly
accepted the offer of a secretarial job. But that was when
he had everything to lose; just now, before he began a
serious period of coaching, he chafed at delay, and took
it out of himself by 50-mile cycle rides out of London.

Another interest was the amateur theatre, which had
engrossed his attention at Cambridge but with which he
now flirted almost for the last time. “ He is becoming
quite a famous amateur actor,” said the London press
when he appeared in the title role of “ Jedbury Junior ”
at the Albert Hall. It was a charity performance, duly
attended by Royalty, and although one paper remarked
cruelly that “ Charity covered a multitude of sins,” the
majority of the newspapers that have space for these

6

THE FINEST PROFESSION

mattefs gave an airing to their usual cliches such as “ Mr.
Curtis-Bennett figured with much credit in the tide role,
supplying a manly and thoroughly acceptable rendering
of the part. . .

The manly hero’s head was not turned, however. He
wrote in the diary: “ Gave performance of Jedbury
Junior. Drove home and had supper.”

And now the results of the examination were through,
and the die was cast. Curtis-Bennett, at the age of 23,
was to be called to the Bar of the Middle Temple on
November 17, 1902, and would “ devil ” for Mr. Arthur
Hutton.

Before embarking on the strain of sitting in chambers
and waiting for briefs, however, he thought it wise to
take a cure. He had been suffering from throat-trouble,
and Aix-les-Bains was the only treatment. On the day
after the coronation of Edward VII, which he recorded
with complete impassivity in his diary, merely giving the
times of his journeys, he travelled to the South, attended
the baths diligently and returned on September 3. Now
his diaries record his growing interest in a Miss Elsie
Eleanor Dangar, daughter of a family very well known
in Sydney. He had met her at a dinner-party in the
Spring, had visited her when she was staying with her
parents at Marlow, and now travelled, after one night
in London, to Braemar, where the Dangars had a house
for the autumn. Curtis-Bennett was good-looking, could
talk (though he could not write diaries) and had a reputa¬
tion as an athlete that must have travelled even to Australia.
The fact that they went for walks together before breakfast
must indicate to the least imaginative biographer that the

7

CURTIS

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* >

young legal student had now another ambition. The
diaries record the saying of good-bye to “ Elsie ”; no
other page in the leather-covered books refers to anything
more human than the catching of a train or the itinerary
of an evening spent “ sitting at home.”

On his return to London, half-way through September,
he had ten days to wait before going to Euston to meet
“ Elsie.” Thereafter, the diary records a daily meeting,
a state call on Mrs. Dangar, and an invitation to dinner.
When Miss Dangar was occupied with other matters,
the theatre had to suffice, and Curtis-Bennett went almost
every night. His examinations on “ Contract ” and
“ Equity ” claim but a word or two in the diary, whereas
there are many days in which he has to record going to
two theatrical performances, and his narrative for one
day reads “ Morning Clerkenwell: Lunched with Hutton.
Met Elsie and went to see the ‘ Bishop’s Move.’ Back
by Underground. Rehearsal of ‘In Honour Bound.’
Took Elsie and Phyllis to concert at the Town Hall.”

Even the momentous day that he was called to the
Bar at the Middle Temple, does not call from his pen
anything more than the following : “ Monday, November
17th, 1902. Walked over to Lancaster Gate with Noel,
Tube to Chancery Lane. Spent morning about Temple.
Had oysters with Noel at Drivers and lunch at Troc.
Met Elsie at Queen’s Gate, walked to St. James’s Park,
home by Underground. Mother and Elsie came to see
me ‘ called.’ Dinner in Hall, went to the Oxford with
Father.”

The oysters with Noel seem, from the diary, to be the
h ighlight of the most momentous day in his life.

8

THE FINEST PROFESSION

What is remarkable is that on the next day, Curtis-
Bennett had his first brief. It was with Arthur Hutton
for the prisoner, the brief being from Freke Palmer, the
great solicitor who was appearing frequently at Marylebone
before Mr. Curtis-Bennett senior, who was to become
one of his closest friends and who briefed him more than
any one man. The diarist seems to take it in his stride,
and gives it only the curt phrase : “ Had first brief”—
without even the distinction of an underlining.

That emphasis he left for January 21, 1903, when he
writes *. “ Interviewed Mrs. Dangar. Our engagement
allowed to be announced. Elsie and I came back in bus.”
And by that time he had had four briefs, amassing the
sum of 5 guineas—a feat that is remarkable in itself, but
which has no place in his diary.

Three out of the four cases had the honour of being
reported and the cuttings are faithfully preserved. It is
not recorded that Mr. H. Curtis-Bennett had anything
to add to the plea in mitigation put forward by his leader
in his first case, but the story was worth thirty lines in
the Morning Advertiser and, what was even more remarkable,
his second case was for the defence in a murder case.

During the same month he appeared before his father,
who assumed an attitude towards his son of cynical con¬
tempt that deceived nobody. This case also received the
notice of The Times , and now, for the first time, the voice
of Curtis-Bennett was heard in Court. What was more,
it was reported, and he could produce the cuttings as
evidence.

The greater number of cuttings, however, were con¬
cerned with his approaching marriage. Between the

9

beginning of the year and April 4, legal matters did not
intrude themselves unduly, though his appearances in
Court, spaced by some seven days between each, might
be considered frequent by many who spend the first years
of their apprenticeship in chambers. In later years he
told a story against himself about one of these first briefs.
He was asked by a busy barrister to present himself at a
certain Court, stand on his feet at a certain moment, and
remark: “I consent, m’lord.” Unfortunately, the bar¬
rister was in too great a hurry to explain what he was
to consent to, but with the mention of the name of the
client, rushed away. Curtis-Bennett, glad to earn a guinea,
but t errib ly nervous of making a fool of himself, duly
attended, and at the appropriate moment, stood up.

“I consent, m’lord,” he said, with a confidence that he
did not feel.

The Judge looked at him.

“You what}" he inquired.

Something had gone wrong. Even the veriest amateur
could not have forgotten the formula, but here it was
obvious that the preliminary proceedings had been tragic¬
ally distorted. Fortunately, as he stood helplessly before
the Judge, there was a whisper behind him, and a voice
instructed him to apply for the obvious adjournment.
The Judge, knowing perfectly well what had happened,
chose to be merciful. And Curtis-Bennett earned his
guinea, though ever afterwards one of his most frequent
nightmares was set in just such a situation—himself stand¬
ing transfixed on the floor, while Judge and Court gazed
at him waiting for him to speak the words that he did
not know. /

THE FINEST PROFESSION

On April 4 he was married, and written at Folkestone
that night, the diary page presents the unusually untidy
appearance of words underlined. “ Wedding Day,” he
heads it. “ Packed clothes and drove round with Noel
to fetch Elsie’s luggage. Married at 2.30. Elsie and I
left at 4.35, met Noel at Victoria, travelled to Folkestone
by 5 o’c. train. Drove to Royal Pavilion Hotel and
stayed there.”

The next day fires him only with the enthusiasm of a
keen student of railway time-tables. “ We went by 12
o’clock boat to Boulogne, both very ill. Had lunch
there and travelled on to Paris. Reached there at 6.5.
Drove across Paris to the Palais d’Orsay Hotel. Dined
there and stayed the night.”

They went to Biarritz for fifteen days, had another
three days in Paris on the return, and made some resolu¬
tions. One of them led to the collection of a series of
diaries, eloquent of the tidiness of this man, unique in
the light they throw on a strange side of his character.
On the day after his return to London, he went out and
bought a small, cheap account book. On the left-hand
page, he wrote: “ April 26th. Cash in Hand £84 o. o.”
On the opposite page he wrote: “ April 26th. Under¬
ground £0 1. 6. Tobacco £0 3. o.”

Thereafter, for thirty-four years and six months, he
wrote down, in a succession of eleven account books,
every penny that he paid out, the last words being “ Nov.
3,” in preparation for his personal stewardship the follow¬
ing day. The other diaries, recording baldly and some¬
times with unconscious humour, the various activities of
the day, were discontinued three years after he had under-

11

CURTIS

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3 3

tgVp.n this new accountancy. And it was no loss; he
was a bad diarist, for the entries read as if he was intent
only upon providing an alibi for himself at any given
moment of the year. He had never tried to put any
feeling into his litde books; he never recorded a state
of mind, an impression, or an emotion. The only com¬
ment on life he allowed himself during the seven years
in which he kept a record of his movements, is an ex¬
clamation mark on his 21st birthday. “ I enjoyed myself! ”
Here was a man with an ever-rising, effervescent sense of
humour; whose best joke, moreover, was himself. He
found the whole world amusing and inviting to a creature
with a sense of fun. Yet, faced with a blank sheet of
paper, he was only able to put down the facts in their
most material form. There is no record of his ever
having scribbled more than a line or two that repre¬
sented himself in a lighter mood. A pen was for writing
facts; and thus it came about that he had left an astonish¬
ingly eloquent record of the money that passed into and
out of his pocket. In all, these diaries account for some
£150,000—in shillings and pence more often than in
pounds. He was a man who wanted to know where he
stood in the world; except for when he went abroad on
a holiday, he saw before him the comparative figures of
what he had spent and what he had earned, every night
of his life.

This, then, was the beginning, and the first few days’
expenses read as follows : " Underground is. 6 d. Tobacco
3 J • Wine etc., and Underground 7 s. yd. Lunch and Fares
zs. yd. On the other side of the page, there were few
entries. Fortunately he had married a lady of consider-

12

THE FINEST PROFESSION

able private fortune, and his father, from whom, however,
he could expect no substantial legacy, helped him often.
But the six months of that year did not cause him to
write more than three entries as his earnings, and in his
first year he had earned 61 guineas, one brief of 5 guineas
being the greatest compliment so far paid to his forensic
powers.

13

CHAPTER II
Early Days

T alking of these early days when he ran about for
guineas and spent many hours in his chambers wonder¬
ing whether he had chosen aright, Curtis-Bennett gave
some sound advice to the thousands of other young
barristers in a similar state of mind. “ It is largely a matter
of luck,” he said, “ but it is wrong to depend on two or
three years to decide whether you are to be a success or
a failure. You must give the Bar a chance, and if more
young barristers who give it up as hopeless would wait
longer than they do—of course many of them cannot, and
they should not be barristers—then they would find that
there is a living to be made at the Bar without having
either phenomenal luck or remarkable brains. You don’t
need first-class brains, but you do need perseverance, and
you do have to have one ideal at heart. The luck comes
in when you consider the all-important question of health;
one day’s illness at an early stage of your career, and
you may lose the appearance that leads to other work.
Solicitors like to see young men in Court—often in Court,
even if they are earning a guinea. And if not in Court,
they like to know they are in their chambers. It’s on
the very day that you go to Ascot that the solicitor
telephones for an immediate conference. If you’re not

14

EARLY DAYS

there, he’ll telephone another barrister, and ten to one the
other fellow is a most likeable young man, a most intelli¬
gent and lucky young man, who pulls a case out of the
fire. Well, that solicitor won’t telephone you any more;
he’ll give his work to the young man who was in his
chambers when you were backing horses after a month’s
steady attendance in chambers without the telephone
ringing more than twice.”

There was personal experience behind the racy way in
which he put his advice. He sat for many days in Arthur
Hutton’s chambers, paying £6 io s. a quarter for the
privilege, and reflecting that it was a waste of time. He
seriously suggested, during 1903, that he had mistaken his
profession and should give it up. What was the alterna¬
tive this time ? The Army ! Yet, in the year after his
marriage, 1904, briefs came in at the rate of two or three
a month, and he was making the appearances in Court
which were more valuable than the guineas. He was
junior to Mr. Marshall-Hall, K.C., in a three-day case
against a receiver of stolen pills, which brought him 9
guineas in fees and refreshers of 2 guineas each; the 5
guinea brief came on behalf of a man accused of indecency,
in which case Curtis-Bennett was junior to Mr. Charles F.
Gill, K.C. Gill followed a method that commended itself
greatly to him. He was renowned for his attention to
details and had the reputation of being able to pick holes
in any prosecution for indecency, a branch of crime in
which he was considered the foremost defender of his day.
That reputation was later to be handed down to Curtis-
Bennett.

It was Gill who taught Curtis the points to develop in

15

CURTIS

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3 3

certain classes of case. Many a time did Curtis go to a
consultation with Gill in such a case and listen with no
litde interest and, indeed, profit, to Gill instructing the
solicitor what to do, what plans to have made, what photo¬
graphs to have taken, what experiments to attempt—and
realize at the hearing to what good use Gill put the results.

Early in 1904, Curtis-Bennett had another cause to
wonder whether in fact he had done right in choosing the
career of a barrister. On February 29, Leap Year Day,
a son was born, and once again he was assailed with doubts,
particularly since he had just been offered a “ steady ” job.
In spite of the protests of doctor and nurse, who advised
that his wife should not be asked to discuss serious matters
at a critical time, he burst impulsively into the room and
declared that it was now obvious that he should accept a
secretarial post at £600 a year. He had made 14 guineas
during the two months and the expenses must have been
£ 10 . Given the slightest encouragement, he would have
packed away his wig and gown for ever. His wife told
him not to be foolish.

The young Curtis-Bennett, whom they christened
Frederick Henry, but called Derek, received considerable
mention in the press, with other Leap Year babies, and the
cuttings were carefully filed between paragraphs headed
“ Walthamstow Brawl ” and “ Painful Family Case.”
There was no more mention of the “ safe steady job,” and'
at the end of the year, the defence of crime had brought in
over £ 120 . Freke Palmer had sent most of the briefs, and
in many cases Gill was leading Curtis-Bennett. Nearly all
were defences of men and women charged with petty fraud,
assault, or sexual offences. The cases made spicy reading

16

Chur Us SttUs

In 1887 "HARRY” In 1902

/ Kus sell cV Sfins

" A NEW CRACK," 1901

MOTORING

The Tri-Car of 1905; the Rolls Royce of 1921; the La Salle, 1936

EARLY DAYS

in the News of the World, embellished, as was the custom
in those days, with pen-and-ink drawings of the culprits,
all curiously alike, all with the appearance of emotionless
puppets propped up and invested with strange, dark
impulses for the benefit of the press. But the young
barrister of Pump Court whose name appeared as junior
to Gill or Hutton took little part in the proceedings. Still,
he was in Court, and that was what mattered.

Curtis-Bennett joined the South Eastern Circuit and the
Herts and Essex Sessions as soon as possible, for the name
would carry him some way, and it was an obvious choice.
Brentwood and Chelmsford began to appear in the day¬
book and, in the next year, 1905, the account book looked
healthy enough for him to achieve one of his greatest
ambitions. He bought a car.

This daring step was not taken without many inward
fears and doubts. Curtis-Bennett, as he watched his son
crawling on the rug, felt that all the slings and arrows of
harsh criticism were being aimed at him for this gross
indulgence in luxury. A motor-car was the possession of
a rich pioneer and a crank; it could never be considered
as a thing of practical use, but only as the indulgence of
a whim. It was a futurist toy, demanding fantastic up¬
keep, and in return it would transport its daring owner
at the speed of 20 miles an hour for half an hour at a time,
after which its punctures had to be mended. A salve to
his conscience was that this was only a three-wheeler, and
cost only £25. Its former history is not recorded, but the
bills for repairs, that became equal to its initial value in
nine months, suggest that the machine had already seen
life. It was purchased on February 23, but since it had

17 c

CURTIS

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> >

no hood, and the driver had to stop for rain, it was con¬
sidered inadvisable to attempt anything in the nature of a
tour till the weather was more suitable.

But Curtis-Bennett was all prepared before that date.
Several repair bills had been paid, he had bought a dust-
coat for himself and goggles for his wife, and during the
week before Easter, he set out by himself on a tour of some
500 miles, in the course of which he had nine punctures
and <e great trouble with the Belt.” The account book is
peppered with payments for repairs, which seemed to be
necessary every 50 miles, and it was almost automatic to
write “ Repairs to mudguard ” after every day’s journey.
Mention of rain “ stopping progress ” read like a cricket
season summary, but he was undaunted, and when the
three-wheeler was sold in November, the weather being
then prohibitive for motoring, it was only to make plans
for the purchase of another vehicle. He had got the
motoring fever, later to become the passion of his life.
The tri-car fetched £16 10 s. and had cost £17 in repairs,
in 700 miles.

In May of 1905 he was concerned in a drama that he
had often watched as a spectator—a murder trial at the
Old Bailey. The case had more than usual interest, for
it was the first time that the evidence of finger-prints had
been used to an important degree for the prosecution.
For ten years Scotland Yard had been experimenting, but
Curtis-Bennett s leader was able to make something of a
plea out of his submission that “ the finger-print system
was unreliable, and savoured more of the French Courts
than of English justice.”

The accused were two men named Stratton, who had

18

CURTIS

no hood, and the driver had to stop for rain, it was con¬
sidered inadvisable to attempt anything in the nature of a
tour till the weather was more suitable.

But Curtis-Bennett was all prepared before that date.
Several repair bills had been paid, he had bought a dust-
coat for himself and goggles for his wife, and during the
week before Easter, he set out by himself on a tour of some
500 miles, in the course of which he had nine punctures
and “ great trouble with the Belt.” The account book is
peppered with payments for repairs, which seemed to be
necessary every 50 miles, and it was almost automatic to
write “ Repairs to mudguard ” after every day’s journey.
Mention of rain “ stopping progress ” read like a cricket
season summary, but he was undaunted, and when the
three-wheeler was sold in November, the weather being
then prohibitive for motoring, it was only to make plans
for the purchase of another vehicle. He had got the
motoring fever, later to become the passion of his life.
The tri-car fetched £16 10 s. and had cost £ij in repairs,
in 700 miles.

In May of 1905 he was concerned in a drama that he
had often watched as a spectator—-a murder trial at the
Old Bailey. The case had more than usual interest, for
it was the first time that the evidence of finger-prints had
been used to an important degree for the prosecution.
For ten years Scotland Yard had been experimenting, but
Curtis-Bennett’s leader was able to make something of a
plea out of his submission that “ the finger-print system
was unreliable, and savoured more of the French Courts
than of English justice.”

The accused were two men named Stratton, who had

18

EARLY DAYS

murdered an old couple before robbing them of a few
pounds. There were some witnesses who claimed that
they could identify them, and a woman who lived with
them both, gave evidence that she had found, under the
mattress of the room they all inhabited, the tops of some
black stockings. In the room where the old couple had
been murdered there were left three similar stocking-tops,
and it was the opinion of the prosecution that these two
men habitually used them as masks. They were called
the “ Mask Murderers ” and it was proved that they
were two utter undesirables, whose lives and deaths
would not have excited any attention had it not been for
the peculiar nature of the evidence introduced by the
Crown.

Curtis-Bennett appeared as junior to Mr. H. G. Routh,
for one of the brothers. It was in the last days of the old
Old Bailey, and it was perhaps because of this fact that
the public seats were filled by fashionably dressed women
and some well-known men-about-town. Scotland Yard
had then some 80,000 finger-prints on their files. And
on the cash-box of the dead man there was a print that
corresponded exactly, according to the police, with Alfred
Stratton’s right thumb-print. When Mr. Muir, prose¬
cuting, announced that for the first time in history the
police were going to try and convict on that evidence,
there was a thrill round the court.

In confirmation, a warder gave evidence that Albert had
betrayed his brother while in the cells, but this was only
a minor sensation compared with the legal potentialities
of the finger-print system. Mr. Muir had to explain that
the system was based on the theory that no two human

*9

CURTIS

c <

9 9

prints were alike. Obviously, the defence would not
accept such a revolutionary theory, and became immedi¬
ately suspicious of policemen who dabbled in such beliefs.
Mr. Routh made the expert take finger-prints of a juryman,
and suggested that the impression varied with the pressure
exerted. When he brought an expert for the defence,
however, Mr. Routh was not so happy. The witness had
been a former Home Office expert, and did not agree with
Scotland Yard’s methods in using the finger-print system.
This witness said that he was prepared to swear that a
mistake had been made in the prints, but the whole effect
of his evidence was ruined when the prosecution produced
his letters offering to give evidence on either side, without
knowing what the evidence was to be! Curtis-Bennett
now had the unpleasant task of trying to save something
from the wreck of this evidence. He failed dis mall y, for
the Judge interrupted with the remark: “Mr. Curtis-
Bennett, is there not a limit to white-washing this witness ?
It has done your client a lot of harm.”

Curtis-Bennett, in later years, might have thought of a
response, but in 1905, the only thing to do was to sit
down. ...

The Judge did not take to the finger-print system whole¬
heartedly, and seemed to want murderers in the future to
use ink when they left their impressions on cash-boxes.

“ When proper impressions are taken, the system is ex¬
tremely reliable; but it is a different thing to apply it to a
casual mark made through the perspiration of a thumb.

The evidence is not so satisfactory as if, for instance,
the murderer had taken some ink and made a definite
impression ... But to a certain extent, the evidence is

20

EARLY DAYS

corroborative. The jury will not like to act on this
evidence alone. ...”

The spirit of the Old Bailey, that was soon to be de¬
molished, seems to have affected counsel in that sordid
case. Or else perhaps it was the style of oratory of the
day; but here is an extract from the speech for \lbert
Stratton : “ Gentlemen, on some future day, perhap when
this building is gone, if you will picture to yourselves
this court, you will see the crowded galleries and the serried
rows of people sitting behind. You will see the dim gas
lamps, you will see the dock and you will be reminded of
your own presence in this court where you saw this young
man, Albert, arraigned for his life, craning towards you
with bloodshot eye and dry lips, the hot breath coming
from his mouth ...”

The brothers were hanged, and the press paid great
attention to the “ new peril to law-breakers.” “ Finger¬
prints are to the fore,” said the Referee. “ Forewarned is
fore-armed, or rather, in this case, fore-handed, and the
criminal classes will very soon make the new system a back
number by wearing gloves when committing burglaries.”

Looking back on these days with the knowledge of
Curtis-Bennett’s later triumphs in a particular branch of
the law, there is little doubt that the most important case
in which he was concerned was an appeal from a motoring
conviction. The brief was for 5 guineas; if he could
have looked forward thirty years he would have seen him¬
self writing huge sums of money in his account book for
his work in similar cases; it was the first controversial
motoring case.

He was briefed with Earl Russell, K.C., to present the

21

CURTIS

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9 9

appeal of a well-known motorist, Mr. Frederick Coleman,
against a conviction for dangerous driving. Mr. Coleman
had admitted driving at over 20 miles an hour, but denied
that there was^any danger. The Colchester Magistrates
contendesLthat since the speed limit was designed for the
-.safetv of the roads, to drive in excess of 20 miles an hour
wa_s automatically to constitute a danger. Yet the same
Bench, 'a few days previously, had not alleged dangerous
driving against a man who admitted travelling at 39 miles
an hour. Mow, before the Recorder of Colchester, Earl
Russell earned die congratulations of the infant motoring
industry by seciteing^fehe-rfeversar of that conviction and
the allowing of the appeal. Not, however, without some
trouble, for counsel for the respondents urged strongly
that the true interpretation of the Law was that speed was
the determining factor.

“ It is not necessary actually to prove that anyone was
in danger to sustain a charge of driving to the public
danger,” he said, and added that the onus was on the
defence to prove that there was no danger. “ Has your
car any shield or protection from the wind or dust ? ” he
asked the appellant.

“ The dust is usually behind me,” was the reply, and
there was much laughter at that.

“ I agree—and the smell too,” said Mr. Jones, who was
prosecuting, and the reporter of the Colchester Telegraph
adds that there was “ renewed merriment ” at this witty
reference to the unpopular motor-car.

During the next thirty years, Curtis-Bennett was to make
a fortune from the motor-car; the owner-driver was to
contribute a huge annual sum to the legal profession for

22

EARLY DAYS

protection from non-motoring magistrates; and Curtis-
Bennett was to be chosen as the foremost living student
of the law relating to motoring negligence, as counsel in
an historic and perhaps unique motoring case. Small
wonder, therefore, that when a passenger in his car ex¬
claimed violently at the folly of other drivers, Curtis-
Bennett would smile and say: “ Of course. But that’s
where our money comes from! ”

The ordinary run of Sessions and Police Court work
brought him no more than a few guineas, and a contact
with that strange world that drifts through the dock and
departs, leaving behind only a faint memory of squalid
crime, terrible cruelty, poverty and despair. There were
few figures of colour and many completely drab creatures
whose records told of years of prison and regular appear¬
ances before magistrates.

By the end of 1905 the left-hand side of the account
books looked better. He had made over £300 in that year.
His ambition now was to make a thousand a year.

23

CHAPTER III
A Thousand a Year

T he year 1906 brought in over £700. He was still
chasing guineas energetically, though he had seldom
earned more than 15 guineas on one brief, and often
enough several days’ work brought in only a few guineas.
It was not through lack of conscientiousness, for even
when he left his chambers to play a game of billiards in a
Fleet Street saloon, Arthur Hutton’s clerks were told that
for the smallest detail he must be sent for, and Curtis said
that he had never moved faster than from that billiards
saloon to his chambers when a solicitor had called. He
felt a rich man when 10 guineas were paid him in gold—
richer than he felt later when he received cheques for
hundreds. And even at Ascot, where there was a police
court on the course, he once appeared in defence of an
alleged pickpocket between races, took his fee and slapped
it on a horse. “ Somehow you feel cleverer when you win
money at racing than when you work for it,” he said.
His father still helped him with occasional gifts, but his
wife’s parents believed that it would kill his ambition if
his wife received more than he earned.

His craze for motoring was his greatest extravagance.
The motor of those days was never reliable enough to be
used for business, and Curtis regarded it purely as a luxury.

24

A THOUSAND A YEAR

Indeed, this pioneer motorist could always be seen as a
cyclist when it came to transporting himself to and from
the station when they took a country cottage for the
summer, at Laleham. Curtis bicycled to the train—too
often for a day’s waiting in chambers. Yet a new six-
horse power De Dion Bouton had cost him £100 and the
garage bill was usually as high as the “ household books,’*
every detail of which is to be found in his spidery writing;
a bottle of champagne to celebrate the baby’s birthday cost
him 3 s. id .; an apron for the nurse is .; a bath for the
baby 4s. 9 d.; and the curtains were cleaned and Curtis
noted it down.

But the money expended on keeping the De Dion Bouton
in running order was exceeded when he bought Marshall
Hall’s car, in 1907. He got £75 for the De Dion, and
paid Marshall-Hall over £100. Now there was a chauffeur,
new motoring coats and gloves, a subscription to the Auto¬
mobile Association (he was one of the first 5,000 members)
and a fortune on tyres. Once or twice, relying on the
chauffeur, he visited Police Courts in the car, prompting
his clerk to remark dubiously: “I don’t think this car
idea is any good. How can it encoutage solicitors to
give us decent fees when we turn up in a large car with a
chauffeur and do a two-guinea case at a police court ? ”

The new car was a Vulcan, and seldom in the history
of motoring can there have been such a vehicle for wearing
out tyres at over £7 a time, and general repairs. But it
survived several one-day “ tours,” and Curtis was im¬
mensely proud. The year seemed as if it was going to
produce the £1,000 in fees for the first time, and he took
a house at Sunninghill, and Curtis joined Bramshot Golf

25

CURTIS

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> 9

Qub and took his first holiday abroad. The account book,
as faithful a record of a man’s life, ambitions and fears as
has ever been scribbled in terms of shillings and pence,
tells the story of the small bottle of brandy bought the day
before the crossing; again just before Christmas it tells
of Curtis buying a new white waistcoat and a case of wine.

Of some 300 briefs, only a handful were marked more
than “10 and 1,” but there was one good case for him
when he defended, with Mr. George Elliott, K.C., one
Horace George Rayner, sometimes known as Turner. An
extraordinary story was told by Mr. Muir for the prose¬
cution. Rayner’s mother, it seemed, went to live under
the protection of William Whiteley, the millionaire mer¬
chant, in the year 1879. The prisoner was then 3 years
old, and six years later a son was born to Mr. Whiteley
and the prisoner’s mother, and was christened Cecil.
George Rayner did not know that he had a step-brother
until 1898, when he asked his mother who he was.

One day in 1906 George Rayner went to have an inter¬
view with the millionaire in his business offices in London.
Two shots rang out, and William Whiteley fell dead. The
police arrested Rayner, and a struggle was made to save
him from death as a result of a wound in his right
eye. When he had recovered he was charged with the
murder, and in his first statement he said his nam e was
Whiteley, and that he had killed his father. He told the
same story in the witness-box, claiming that he had rightly
asked Mr. Whiteley for financial assistance, believing him
to be his father. He was condemned to death, but the
suggestion that he was mentally unbalanced resulted in his
reprieve and a sentence of penal servitude.

z6

A THOUSAND A YEAR

Marshall-Hall’s Vulcan could not satisfy Curtis-Bennett
for long. He had his heart on a new Fiat, and bought it
by instalments during the autumn of 1907. In 1908 he
moved to Englefield Green, and Curtis took another bold
step in going into chambers of his own in Plowden Build¬
ings. The cost was considerable, and he found that the
immediate result was to lose briefs which Mr. Hutton
mi ght have passed on to him. He made £800 in that year,
but he was in two cases which took the public eye, the
“ Poplar Scandals ” and a case in which Carrie Nation, the
well-known agitator against smoking, was fined for break¬
ing a smoking advertisement in a Tube train. Curtis also
appeared for the Crown in the first two appeals to be heard
by the newly formed Court of Criminal Appeal. But for
the most part he earned his £800 at a couple of guineas a
time, many of them from the railway companies, with
whom he had made an early reputation. In that year, too,
he made a friendship that was to last through the years,
through a great many cases that were front-page news, a
friendship never marred by a quarrel—J. D. Cassels,
formerly a newspaper reporter, was that year called to the
Bar. One of his earliest stories of Curtis-Bennett concerns
a brief they held jointly, marked z guineas. On the day
before the case was due to be heard, they were shocked to
learn that their client had committed suicide.

“ I wonder what made him do that ? ” said Cassels.

“ Possibly worry over the amount we were being paid ? ”
suggested Curtis.

In his new chambers, Curtis had Sam Humphreys, a
great character of the legal profession, as his clerk. The
clerk cannot make a barrister, but he can go a long way

2 7

CURTIS

< <

3 3

towards raising his fees and generally enhancing his repu¬
tation. Humphreys was an artist at his work and was
well known for his wit and his presence of mind. He was
later elected Judge at the annual Dunmow Flitch Trial,
and generally did much to help to bring the barristers in
his chambers into the public eye.

In 1908 Curtis-Bennett had earned nearly £2,000, and
his name was already becoming well known. “ The D. S.
Windell Bank Fraud” was one of the most interesting
cases. With Mr. George Elliott, he was briefed to defend
a young Dutchman named Robert who had been concerned
with a charming young swindler in what the Judge called
the greatest bank swindle since the Bank of England case
in 1871. The other accused was a 29-year-old clerk in a
bank, named Francis King. He had made inquiries at
various branches of his bank, forged eight signatures and
the password of the bank for the day, in his manager’s
writing, and sent Robert round the eight branches in a
taxi-cab one morning, cashing cheques under the curious
name of “ D. S. Windell ” to the extent of £2,300. By
examining 80,000 bank forms, the bankers traced the
forgeries to King, and arrested Robert in Spain, where he
had been getting rid of the notes. Both prisoners were
facetious and pleasant to the police at the tim e of their
arrest. The defence did not put them in the witness-box.
And young Robert, who described himself in a letter read
in Court as “ a rather precocious youngster, not understood
by my surroundings,” went to prison for eighteen months.

The motoring craze already began to have concrete
benefits as early as 1909. Curtis-Bennett was far and away
the most expert barrister in a motoring case; as yet,

28

A THOUSAND A YEAR

judges and magistrates did not want to hear technical de¬
tails, and the police evidence of motor-cars “ tearing past
like the wind ” was usually sufficient to convict a driver,
who was considered as a rich and slightly eccentric danger
to the public safety. Curtis-Bennett knew that the police
knew nothing about motor-cars ; and their evidence could
be tom to shreds if only a Court could understand some¬
thing of practical motoring. A case in 1909 and another
four years later, show the difficulties of these pioneer motor¬
ists when the police decided that they should be prosecuted
for their 20-mile-an-hour foolhardiness.

Curtis-Bennett appeared for a chauffeur who was charged
with disobeying the signals of two police officers. The
magistrate at Marlborough Street attempted to prevent
him from producing two witnesses, and told him that he
was wasting the time of the Court. The evidence for the
defence was that the police had given wrong and un¬
recognizable signals (a fault which Curtis-Bennett alleged
against the police until the end of his life), but the magis¬
trate calmly said that the police were there to give signals,
and therefore must have given them! The fine was one
pound. Curtis-Bennett asked that it should be increased
to one guinea, in order to give him the opportunity of
appealing. But in those days magistrates frequently
inflicted this sum for dangerous driving, in order to make
certain that an endorsement appeared on the licences of
the well-hated motorists.

The next year, Curtis-Bennett was himself charged with
speeding. He defended himself and obtained an acquittal.
He had driven through a police trap in a country village
and at the time accused the police of comparing their stop

29

CURTIS

««

j j

watches in order to give identical evidence. He told the
Court that when he was stopped he thought he must have
been in a io-mile-an-hour area, for he was certainly not
exceeding 20 miles an hour. He had driven 50,000 miles
in six years, and was most anxious to avoid an endorse¬
ment on his licence. This was the first of three summonses
(on two of which he was fined) he received in the
course of his motoring career. He framed them and had
them hung in his garage at Boreham, where they still
are.

But a case more illustrative of the persecution of motorists
-by-thepolice occurred in 1913, when the “ Grey Car Case ”
was heard. These were the days when the colour of a
car, the fact that it was a touring model and of considerable
power, convinced witnesses and justices that they were
dealing with “ road-hogs ” in racing cars. Rural witnesses
talked of seeing cars rush through villages and turn corners
on two wheels, with the sparks flying from the back wheels.
Any witness could make a guess at the speed of a car—
and when asked by Curtis-Bennett to estimate the passing
of ten seconds without looking at a watch, they were
usually fifty per cent incorrect. The “ Grey Car ” was
driven by John Sallows, a chauffeur, and had killed a
woman near Hammersmith Bridge. Sallows had driven
on after the accident, and it was not until a month after¬
wards that the police offer of £100 reward had resulted in
his being found and charged with manslaughter. The car
had been taken out without permission, and it was proved
that the driver and the occupants knew about the accident.
The fact that it was a “ torpedo-shaped ” car, and that
there were women passengers, did not help the accused.

30

A THOUSAND A TEAR

But Curtis-Bennett suggested that the jury should take no
notice of the details which sounded so ominous, and con¬
centrate on the point as to whether Sallows was criminally
negligent. He produced plans to show that a buttress
must have impeded his view, and obtained his acquittal,
though the verdict attracted some notice in the House of
Commons. Sallows was fined, and his licence was taken
away for two years, on charges of failing to stop after an
accident.

Curtis-Bennett himself was always a fast driver, but he
had excellent road sense, and he treated the handling of a
car as an art and a whole-time occupation. He came to
regard it as his only relaxation and, nearly every year, from
1909 onwards, he took a car to France. But though he
realized that in a few years the police would have to take
a firm stand against dangerous drivers, he criticized bitterly
the fact that they were never educated in the niceties of
motoring. If a village constable waved his hand agitatedly
up and down as a signal for him to slow down, Curtis-
Bennett would stop, call the man to him angrily and ask
him what he thought he was doing.

“ If I am driving too fast for you,” he said, “ summon
me. If I am not, leave me alone. But don’t wave your
arm up and down in that meaningless way. It is not a
signal.”

When he had police constables in the witness-box in a
speeding case, he could usually destroy the whole effect of
their evidence by a few questions on the actual ari thme tic
of their tests. He complained that they never seemed to
work out the meaning of what they were saying; they did
not understand the meaning of speed as related to time,

3i

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and they did not realize that one second’s difference over
a short distance meant a vital difference over a long period.
He complained that most of them had never driven cars
and did not know the full meaning of skids and skid- marks , j
and indeed, one of his greatest triumphs in a moto ring
case was when he made the experts called for the prosecu-'
tion admit that skid-marks, said to have been made by the
defendant’s car, must have been made by a car coming in
the opposite direction.

Curtis-Bennett made only a brief appearance in a sensa¬
tional case at the beginning of 1911, the “ Houndsditcb.
Murders,” when five foreigners appeared on charges of
sEobtmg and murdering policemen. He appeared for a
woman, Luba Milstein. The case excited great interest.
The police expected trouble, and threw a cordon round
the Court before the hearing ; the underworld was being
combed once again, and the exhibits included daggers and
bandoliers of cartridges, pistols and rifles. The Crown,
however, decided that Luba Milstein should not be pro¬
ceeded against, and she was released.

By far the biggest case he had appeared in so far was
heard in October, 1911, when crowds surged outside Bow
Street, and the police cordon was frequently broken by a
mob of people who wanted to see the sporting hero of.
the moment—Jack Johnson. James White, Bombadier
Billy Wells and Johnson had been summoned for contem-
p ating a breach of the peace—the breach being the £8,000
prize-fight for the heavy-weight championship of the world,
amnged for the next week. It was obvious that the
woe future of boxing in this country was at stake, and
against the Solicitor-General, Sir John Simon, K.C., M.P.,

32 ' *

A THOUSAND A YEAR

and Mr. R. D. Muir and Mr. Travers Humphreys for the
Treasury, the defendants had retained Mr. F. E. Smith, K.C.,
to lead for all of them, while Curtis-Bennett appeared for
Johnson and Wells, Mr. Forrest Fulton and Mr. Eustace
Fulton for White. F. E. Smith could not attend the first
hearing, and Curtis-Bennett himself had only received his
brief as he came into Court, and only that morning had
been approached about the defence. He immediately
asked for an adjournment, but the magistrate would only
consent if a promise were given that the contest would not
take place the following week. Certainly it seemed unfair
that though the contest had been advertised for months
past, and the contracts had been signed some time ago, at
a few days’ notice the promoters were being asked to
relinquish all hope of getting their money back.

After argument, the magistrate said he would hear the
opening of the case that day. Sir John Simon, an ethereal
and delicate intruder into the company of elegant black
bruisers, famous referees and fans of the great fighting
game, submitted that the record of championship fights
showed that in fourteen out of twenty-two contests, one
combatant was unable to continue.- It was, therefore,
clearly a proposed breach of the peace. They might think
that the obvious procedure was to send police to watch
the fight, but he would not like to answer for what would
happen if that course were taken, and in fact, a magistrate
had once been roughly handled when he tried to interfere
at a prize-fight. He told how Johnson had, in three such
championship fights, reduced his opponent to a condition
in which he could not continue. “ That fact abundantly
justifies my submission that the fourth in which he proposes

33 d

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to take part should not take place within the jurisdiction
of this Court.”

Johnson always thought that his enemies had planned
this campaign against the fight. In actual fact, though the
summonses displeased most of the sporting fraternity in
the country, there was another big section which disap¬
proved of a Black versus White championship. This
aspect was, of course, not referred to in the case, and Sir
John Simon only protested that the proposal that two men
should fight until one or the other was incapacitated filled
him with the greatest indignation.

The hearing was adjourned until later in the week; but
by that time “ Jimmy ” White had realized that he was
fighting a losing batde. The fight had been advertised
to take place on the following Monday; he could not
postpone it, and if he fought the case, it was likely'to last
several days and cost him a small fortune; when, there¬
fore, the pugilists assembled again before the Bow Street
Magistrate, Mr. White announced that he was prepared
to give an undertaking that it would not take place. Jack
Johnson lost thousands of pounds through the cancella¬
tion of contracts to write his version of the fight, but he
appeared on the music halls. Wells lost the £2,000 he
was promised if he would step into the ring against the
giant negro; and the boxing public of England, who
dearly love a heavy-weight scrap and a man of the physique
and picturesqueness of Johnson, wondered once more, as
they have always wondered, why they were denied a
pleasure for which they were ready to pay.

Once^ again, 19x2 showed another jump in Curtis-
Bennett s earnings. He was in the two-thousand-a-year

34

A THOUSAND A YEAR

class—one of the most rapid rises to that pinnacle ever
made by a barrister practising in the criminal courts. He
was beginning to get the licensing briefs, but save for a
profitable fortnight in March, when he appeared in a case
in which thirty suffragettes were charged with resisting
the police, there was no case that was out of the ordinary.

In June, 1913, Curtis-Bennett’s father, who had a few weeks
before been appointed Chief Magistrate at Bow Street and
knighted, collapsed suddenly after making a speech at the
Mansion House. The circumstances recurred later with
tragic similarity. Curtis from the start had appeared
frequently before him. Neither of them welcomed it, for
Sir Henry was bound to lean against his son’s argument,
and the son was equally bound to feel the weight against
him. Such was the rigid code of his father, who always
acted in a way that would crush any suggestion that he
was favouring the advancement of his son by helping him
obtain briefs. Yet in these later years Sir Henry had come
to his own son for advice, and showed his admiration for
the rapid advance he had made in little more than ten years.

Sir Henry was survived by his wife; a quarter of a
century later that gracious lady was to survive her son
and have three great-grand-children.

35

CHAPTER IV
“ Doing a Curtis.”

W ith a flat in London, a country house that was
appreciably bigger, and a family that had been
increased by the birth of a daughter, Ann, in 1910, Curtis
now lived on a different scale. He was beginning to be
able to be more exclusive in the work he accepted, and
with licensing and railway briefs making up a solid founda¬
tion of his practice, with a pupil paying satisfactory fees for
working with him in chambers, and two fat briefs coming
along in the year that swelled his income by no less than
£1,200, he was on the crest of the wave. One of these
briefs was for the defence in the “ Canteen Case,” which
lasted through the year. Curtis was paid nearly 1,000
guineas for his work. In addition, his wife’s income had
risen. Perhaps it was fortunate that Curtis could not fore¬
see that in two years’ time, the shadow of the War would
force him to live almost wholly on that income, while he
himself watched the temporary collapse of his practice.

The licensing cases required tact and diplomacy, com¬
bined with expert local knowledge. Curtis liked the work,
apart from its remuneration, for at Brewster Sessions there
would be a Bench of magistrates before whom he could
display his well-known persuasive tactics with good effect.
Success in making licensing applications depends to some

36

DOING A CURTIS

t i

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extent on the personality of the applicant; Curtis knew
the magistrates from many experiences in Court, and they
liked to listen to him. But though it might seem that
the representation of fifteen or twenty licencees in a day,
some of them meeting with no opposition, was not a
difficult task, Curtis never worked harder than in the first
few months of the year when the Brewster Sessions were on.

He loved to surprise the Bench with his own knowledge
of the layout of districts and plans of new licensed houses.
He toured the districts before making new applications,
and after the heyday of George Elliott, Archibald Bodkin
and Cecil Whiteley, he became the most sought-after
barrister in licensing work. His success in Court was
due to his never-failing patience and politeness; he was
particularly pleasant to clergymen who opposed licences,
and he had an invaluable gift for making the magistrates
personally interested in the applications he put forward.
He was never monotonous; that was the secret of his
success in a difficult department of the craft of advocacy;
and indeed, licensing sessions provided some of his swiftest
and most effective shafts of repartee—losing half their
effect when set down on paper, but sufficient to provide
a welcome moment of levity when heard in Court.

Some of his success depended on his audacity. He
could present a Bench of licensing Justices with the most
completely trivial argument and invest it with an atmo¬
sphere of profound wisdom. Only those who had heard
his remarks when considering the case, knew that behind
that impressive mask and portentous manner, he was
wondering whether by any possible freak his gamble
could come off. One morning, after using up all his

37

CURTIS

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arguments to win three applications for licensed houses
in one district, he was faced with the problem of finding
a reason for the application of another house. “ What
can we say now ? ” he asked. “ What is there to say ? ”

When he stood up, he put forward the argument that
because this house was the only one in the district belong¬
ing to this particular brewery, it would be unjust if the
large public accustomed to that brand of beer had to
walk several miles—or even use a public conveyance—
in order to obtain what they wanted! The application
was successful. And not by a vestige of expression on
his face, not by a twinkle in his eye, did he reveal his
amus em ent at the success of an argument that was perhaps
more attractive than convincing.

Gradually, he became known at the Bar for this audacity
which so often proved successful. He regarded no argu¬
ment as doomed to failure, particularly when he was
putting it to a jury or a Bench of magistrates. The manner
and the trick became known by an expression that is used
to-day to describe a certain combination of honest bluff,
cheek, opportunism and a genius in choosing a phrase
and in timing; an action informed with guile yet so
ingenuous as to cause a smile. They called it “Doing
a Curtis.” A vague phrase, it is yet perfectly understood
by every barrister and solicitor who saw Curtis in action.
Curtis used it himself about his own methods, readily
admitting that it had “ come off” again. He said it of
himself, years later, when he had put on weight, about
his cycling days. “It’s difficult to believe, Curtis, that
you were ever a champion cyclist,” said a friend, surveying
his ample girth.

38

“doing a curtis”

“ I’ll tell you about that,” he said. “ I chose the
outside position up on the bank, and when the starter’s
pistol went off I turned my wheel down the bank and rode
across the front of the other competitors, and they never
caught me after that. I ‘ did a Curtis ’ for the first time.”

Originally, the phrase was used to describe his manner
when submitting “ No Case ” at the end of a prosecution’s
evidence, with one eye on the jury in the hope that even
if the Judge had to hold there was a case in Law, the
jury might be so affected by what he said that they would
stop the case themselves. But later, “ doing a Curtis ”
came to mean any typical gesture or move of ingenuous
guile.

At the Old Bailey, in an important case, the Judge
had resumed his seat after the luncheon adjournment
before Curtis had returned. A messenger was sent to
the Barristers’ room to find him. As he came into court,
calm and unhurried, he looked at the clock and, instead
of the expected humble apology, remarked suavely : “ It
is unfortunate, my Lord, that the clocks in this building
are not synchronized. If they were, your Lordship would
not be kept waiting. ...”

He readily admitted his own pleasure at the success of
“ a Curtis.” Considering a manslaughter case, he shook
his head slowly, and when the solicitor expressed surprise,
saying he had an excellent case, Curtis explained: “ It’s
a very good case; But there aren’t enough red herrings.
You want a lot of red herrings in a manslaughter case. . . .”

And again, in another manslaughter case, when he was
replying to several congratulations after an acquittal:
“Yes, I hadySix hares to start. I started that one first.

39

CURTIS ' '

I saw one juryman fairly leap at it. I knew that one was
a safe winner and so I ran it hard the whole way, and
didn’t start any of the others.”

This was in line with his oft-repeated advice : “ Don’t
confuse the jury. When you have one good point, run
it for all you are worth. Repeat it and din it into them;
never let them forget it. You can forget all the other
points.”

Sometimes he liked to shock the Court, so that when
the jury considered their verdict, they would still be reel¬
ing under the surprise of his pleading. Imagine, for
instance, the feelings of a jury, asked to decide whether
a defendant was a knave or a fool, when Curtis stood up
and said: “You may think my client is a fool. I tell
you so myself—he is a fool. But you can’t convict on
that, or the Courts would be full! ”

He often used to say that his client’s case was at its best
before he went into the witness-box—the tragic Thompson
case being the classic example of his client insisting on
defying his advice.

But the greatest example of the va^ue of this audacious
approach, this courageous, seemingfly care-free gesture
that was so carefully rehearsed, was 1 during a motor-car
accident case which presented a not-u»usual complication.
A married man and a married woman, ^both happy in their
separate domestic circles, decided to spenjud a week together.
Iney took every precaution to hide ttoeir identity and
t eir escapade from busybodies; alibiJL were carefully
manufactured, telephone calls were arranged to allay
suspicion, and they even garaged their l:ars and hired
anot er vehicle in which to travel to the Jkcountry hotel.

40 ®

DOING A CURTIS

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»>

Their plans were perfect in the execution, but on the'"
way back to London they ran into a man and he was
killed.

Curtis was briefed by a distracted couple who saw
themselves and their families, their married lives and
their futures, involved in a terrible scandal as the result
of one temporary escapade. More tragic than a verdict
of criminal negligence would be the revelation, that would
at once follow, that the driver of the car was accompanied
by the woman. Their movements would be traced; their
escapade would be public property and their two homes
would be wrecked. “ I had the devil’s own job,” said
Curtis.

At the inquest, he was able to assure the relatives of
the dead man that their claims would be recognized at
a figure that was more than generous. He successfully
disposed of any suggestion that there should be a prosecu¬
tion, and he was tying up his brief, sighing with relief,
when the police inspector who had charge of the case
asked aloud in Court: “ Wasn’t there a passenger in the
car ? ”

In another moment success might turn into ruin, if
the Coroner or the police suggested that this valuable
witness of the accident should give her evidence.

Curtis went on tying up his brief. With an air of
supreme unconcern, he said : “ I don’t think the passenger
can carry the matter any further or assist the Court.”

He had “ done another Curtis.”

His modesty' made it possible for him to utter many a
phrase which/ would have offended if it had not been
accompanied, by a certain charm of manner and ingenu-

41

ousness that was proof against insult. Mr. Claude Mullins
told him : “ I would rather be told I was wrong by you
than by anyone else.” He was given a licence by judges
and opposing counsel that many envied, and even Mr.
Justice Avory, least frivolous of all judges, smiled his
tolerance at him. Curtis politely asked permission to
quote some precedents in a case that seemed hopeless
from the start. The Judge, knowing that he was fighting
with forlorn hope, admiring him for his tenacity, gave
permission with a most understanding smile.

“ Certainly you may quote precedents,” he said. “ If
they have anything to do with the case at all. . . .”

This presence and manner was undoubtedly his greatest
asset. He was not a profound lawyer, and never pre¬
tended, to be. “If you want Law,” he said, “you can
look it up. To be too deep is a disadvantage. My Law
library is Ruff’s Guide to the Turf and an A B C.” Yet his
three-days’ speech in the Armstrong Appeal is quoted
to-day as a classic in the art of applying the legal statutes
and authorities.

His invaluable ability to make friends, and to keep
them, served him well in Court. He never forgot a name,
and whereas some of the leaders of the Bar were too proud
to recognize the existence of humble servants of Justice,
Curtis counted among his friends many of the clerks in
country courts who sat at the feet of magistrates and
often played a most important part in advising them.
These clerks knew, better than any illustrious stranger,
the personal idiosyncrasies and prejudices- of the local
Bench. They helped Curtis, and when he psleaded a case
before an unknown Bench, and put forward a certain

42

DOING A CURTIS

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line of argument, he watched the magistrates’ clerk with
the corner of an eye. That official might merely frown
slightly; Curtis took the hint; and nobody else in Court
knew why the well-known and genial barrister suddenly
changed his tactics and embarked on an entirely new line
of country, more in sympathy with the personal fe elin gs
of the Bench;

He was sensitive to every tremor in a Court-room;
he knew that magistrates and juries do not form their
opinions on legal precedents alone, and he took care to
inform himself of their prejudices and their instincts. He
knew the value of their opinion of him as a man, and
he contrived to see what was behind the masks of their
faces, so that, after a great closing speech for the defence,
he would often tick off on his fingers those members of
a jury who were, with him, and those who were still un¬
convinced by his oratory. “ The two women are all
right,” he would say. “I have the women with me.
But there’s a man on the right of the back row who doesn’t
like me. . .

He often gained the sympathy of a jury when he subtly
flattered them. “ You and I, men of the world as we
are,” he would say. Or: “ When we are driving our
cars on the roads of England, members of the jury . .

Or: “ There are people who are not so tolerant as we
are, gentlemen . . .”

Then he watched their pleasure, saw them make mental
notes that here at last was a man who understood them,
who took them at their real worth.

But there was nothing cynical in his attitude to the
jury as an institution. He believed the jury system pro-

43

CURTIS

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5 ?

duced justice. He was always admiring the trouble taken
by juries to get at the truth, their patience and con¬
scientiousness ; and naturally, he had several stories of
juries that were against himself.

One concerns a case in which he felt he was sure of
one m an in the back row, who followed him with every
sign of interest, and nodded his head repeatedly when he
made his strongest points. Curtis hoped that this man’s
apparent enthusiasm would spread to his colleagues. To
his consternation, however, the man’s head continued
to nod in agreement when his adversary spoke for the
prosecution. Curtis then understood that he was one of
those listeners who nod their heads in token of having
heard, and taken in, an argument; but the nodding of his
head by no means indicated that he agreed with what he
heard.

Curtis could emerge unscathed through the most daring
passage of armed wit with a judge or his “ learned friends.”
He probably went to greater lengths of audacity when
addressing the Bench than any man since the days of a
predecessor who was very like him in temperament and
build, and who was known to say to Appeal Judges who
were pressing him with questions: “ One at a timp,
please 1 ”

For the defence in one case, with Mr. Archibald Bodkin
for the prosecution, Curtis made a decision not to put his
client into the box. Now Mr. Bodkin had been counting
on a slight breathing-space after the evidence for the
prosecution, and had no idea that he would be called
upon to speak so early in the proceedings. He needed
time to collect his thoughts, and had as yet made no

44

DOING A CURTIS

t e

y y

preparations. As he sat down at the end of the re¬
examination of the last of his own witnesses, Curtis stood
up and said: “I call no evidence, m’Lord.”

“ What’s that ? ” asked Mr. Bodkin.

“ You heard. . . said Curtis in a loud voice.

Judges liked him. There are few men at the Bar who
can suggest without interruption from His Lordship that
the jury should stop the case. “ Of course, if you wish
to hear my witnesses,” Curtis would say, “ I can produce
a score, fifty witnesses! But do you want to hear any
more of this remarkable case ? ”

To illustrate this phrase that will live for many years
in the vocabulary of the Temple, this slangy and pictur¬
esque expression which conjures up so perfectly the portly,
immaculate, self-confident figure who might spring a
surprise at any minute, there is the story of Curtis in
Court during a case that was not going at all well for
his client. Even Curtis had difficulty in keeping a con¬
fident expression on his face while the most damning
admissions were extracted from his own witnesses. A
solicitor passed near his seat, and Curtis whispered into
his ear. The solicitor replied with a short sentence.
Upon which Curtis burst into a paroxysm of silent laughter,
a gust of quiet mirth that none in Court failed to observe.
It was as if he had just heard news that completely dis¬
pelled his anxiety and revealed, once and for all, the folly
of the opposition case. Judge, jury, his own client, and
even his learned friend, could not help but think that
Curtis had just heard something that would shake the
case to pieces. And his confidence was immediately
transferred to the case for the defence.

45

CURTIS

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“ What did you say to Curtis that pleased him so much ? ”
the solicitor was asked.

“ Nothing,” was the reply. “ I only told him it -was
raining outside. ...”

Once, “ doing a Curtis ” took an unexpected turn.
Curtis did the usual submission to the Judge with one
eye on the jury. The Judge was hesitating and the jury
was talking. Then came the customary observation from
Curtis: “ I do not know whether the jury want to hear
any more of this case.” The foreman stood up and said
“ No.”

“ How do you find the prisoner ? ” said the Clerk.

“ Guilty,” said the foreman.

That situation took another two or three hours to put
right, and it is satisfactory to record that the prisoner
was finally acquitted.

46

CHAPTER V
Wartime

T he outbreak of war found Curtis immersed in a great
year’s work, which had already brought in a matter
of £ 4,000. During the last days of July he had planned
a motor tour in France, but had turned back at Boulogne
and gone to Littlestone for a week-end’s golf. The news
of war shook him and puzzled him—as it did many others
who later claimed to have foretold the calamity. Rumour
was no more wild in the Temple than anywhere else, but
it was obvious that the ranks of the legal fraternity would
be depleted.

When, in 1915, the appeal was made to every man at
least to make an offer of his services to the country, Curtis
made the pilgrimage to a recruiting office—a rotund, em¬
barrassed and somewhat pathetic figure. He knew his
application was a waste of time.

He surprised an ordinary recruiting office with his
presence, and was turned down for any kind of service
without so much as an examination. He was only 35,
but already the lack of vigorous exercise to which his
muscles had been attuned at Cambridge, his strained heart,
and his natural inclination to fat, had given him a generous
figure that even a recruiting doctor could discern as the
sign of ill-health.

47

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In 1915 the War had touched him with more than its
ordinary gesture. He was briefed in spy cases, and ever
afterwards there was to live in his brain a memory of
tragic men, brave or cowardly, who stood in the Old
Bailey or before a court martial with their defence in his
hands—but with little hope of escaping conviction. The
authorities were remarkably punctilious in ensuring that
spies caught in this country were given the full privilege
of a tria l. The War Office instructed solicitors to brief
counsel in their defence, and the Judges—when it was a
civil trial—were always insistent that the procedure should
be precisely according to custom. The smallest departure
from custom in the prosecution, and there was a possi¬
bility of a hard-and-fast case being unsuccessful. The
Law was not to be shaken by the “ exigencies of war ”
or any similar interferences.

Early in 1915 Curtis-Bennett defended Carl Muller,,
who was proved to have been a regular visitor to one
of the best known of the spy-forwarding addresses in
London—a bakery in Deptford High Street. Muller had
always been demanding money from the German Intelli¬
gence Service. He was picked up by the police in New¬
castle after Peter Hahn, the baker, had been cross-examined
at Scotland Yard. He was tall and lanky and in a per¬
petual state of terror when Curtis advised him as to his
defence. He spoke English with hardly a trace of an
accent, and for some time he resisted the imputation that
he was, in fact, a German. But Curtis learnt that actually
he spoke German and French as well as Flemish and
Dutch. Muller and the baker were tried together at the
Old Bailey in 19x5, and found guilty of espionage. Hahn

48

WARTIME

received seven years’ penal servitude, escaping the death
penalty after proving that he had been under the influence
of Muller. Muller was sentenced to death, but Curtis
advised an appeal. Here again he was unsuccessful. In
June, when Muller was being removed to the Tower in
a taxi-cab, it broke down and a crowd formed immedi¬
ately to jeer at one whom they immediately recognized
as a German spy. On the night before his execution he
collapsed completely, but in the early morning, when he
went to face the firing party, he expressed a wish to shake
hands with the soldiers.

On May n, 1915, the “ Security Services ” sent out tele¬
grams to the ports of England asking for an immediate
report on any young man of unknown description and
any nationality, who might give as his business the selling
of cigarette-lighters; the net was to bring in a drug¬
taking Jew, and Curtis was to have the first of several
briefs that caused him pain and embarrassment and some¬
times real sorrow. “ It was an unpleasant task,” he said,
“ but I considered it to be my duty, and I fulfilled my
duty as far as I was able.”

The young Jew traveller in cigarette-lighters was Robert
Rosenthal, an ex-criminal who had been offered his freedom
if he would undertake espionage for Germany. It was
by the wildest chance that he was apprehended, for the
authorities had nothing more to go on than that he was
expected in England shortly. A letter had been inter¬
cepted in the post which gave these bare details, and
only a few hours after the telegrams had been dispatched,
news came that such a man was waiting to catch a boat
at Newcastle. When he was brought to London he

49 E

CURTIS

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9 9

’ <e confessed ” that he was a German soldier; actually he
had spent very few years in his own country, most of them
without employment, until the outbreak of War. He
was only twenty-three years old, a completely contemptible,
cowardly type, and had no hesitation, in an extremity of
terror, in offering his services to England now that he
was caught. During the trial by court martial, however,
he bore himself well, encouraged by Curtis, though since
he had admitted both his German nationality and his
intention to work as a spy in England, there was little
defence available, and his counsel could do no more than
put forward in extenuation the plea of his youth and his
inexperience, the fact that he had done no harm, and
that he had been more or less forced into this occupation.
These pleas were of no avail, and Rosenthal was one of
the youngest spies to be executed in this country, being
hanged at the Tower, owing to the military exercises then
taking place within the confines. Before his death he
tried twice to hang himself in his cell, and was dragged
to the scaffold crying his innocence and protesting his
willingness to do any service for England in return for
freedom. Even the defence of such a man was an un¬
pleasant task, and Curtis was not anxious to repeat the
experience. But in the autumn, after a busy fortnight
in which seven spies were caught, he defended two men
of dramatically differing temperaments. Among the riff¬
raff sent to England by Germany as “ agents,” there was
hardly one per cent who were considered in the Father-
land as “ gentlemen,” Lody being a shining exception
to the general rule. The majority were poorly-paid,
ill-equipped mercenaries who had never deserved a

50

■WARTIME

moment’s admiration for the dangerous game they
played.

Perhaps the next most gallant fighter in the “ war
without arms ” was Fernando Buschman, the young,
good-looking, Latin-faced violin-player, who said he was
travelling for a Dutch firm in England, trying to sell
cheese and vegetables and other commodities, but who
was found to have descriptions of warships in his note¬
books. His papers contained letters that left no doubt
of his purpose in England, and the only query in his
case seemed to be why this intelligent young man had
ever become mixed up in the espionage business, and
why he had ever attempted to pose under such obviously
false colours. Curtis could do litde or nothing with his
defence, but when the inevitable sentence of death was
spoken, Buschman faced his judges like a brave man and
said: “ I thank you for the scrupulous justice I have
received.”

In the Tower he asked for his violin, that instrument
with which he had charmed the landladies in his lodgings
wherever he had stayed in England. Throughout the
nights he played unceasingly, and Curtis was touched
when Buschman sent him, through the guard, a score of
music that he had himself composed. On the eve of his
execution he was again playing till a late hour, and when
they came to take him out he kissed the violin passionately
in farewell, showing a Latin temperament that he had care¬
fully concealed when on his trial. He was smiling when
the shots rang out that killed him—one of the most pathetic
and fatalistic spies who ever blundered through England
in the War. Later it was discovered that he had volun-

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• teered for this work apparently from his own choice, for
he was a rich young man who could easily have remained
in B razil , where he had been educated, without being
touched by the War.

His trial had taken place at the Westminster Guildhall
in the morning of September 20, and that same afternoon
Curtis went to the Old Bailey to defend a very different
type of man. This was “ Reginald Rowland,” or more
correctly, Georg T. Breeckow, a professional musician
who had posed as a rich American travelling in England
for his health. The pose was a good one, for he had
spent several years in America, and, somewhat strangely,
was supplied with plenty of money. He had served a
short time in the German Army before being sent to
England, equipped with a code for use in messages which
he was to transmit through Holland. His good American
accent, only vulnerable when guttural German syllables
intruded in moments of stress, served him well, and if it
had not been for his accomplice, Breeckow might well
have gone free for many months. The accomplice was
Lizzie Wertheim, a British subject by marriage, who kept
a boarding-house in Bloomsbury. Before attempting any
inquiries which might result in obtaining information of
value, Mrs. Wertheim and Breeckow splashed their money
about the West End, riding in the Park, visiting the most
expensive restaurants and generally making contacts with
a class of society well above that of a boarding-house
keeper. It was not until the flashy and dazzling woman
began touring the Scottish ports, in a large car with her
maid, and staying at the best hotels, where she hoped to
meet naval officers, that the authorities became suspicious.

52

WARTIME

Their fears were confirmed when they intercepted a mes- •
sage from Breeckow to Holland to the effect that Mrs.
Wertheim’s suddenly increased wealth had gone to her head,
and that he had difficulty in restraining her extravagance.
The lady was watched, and though some of her mysterious
movements were explained by the fact that she was buy¬
ing cocaine for herself, there were other matters which
decided the authorities to arrest the pair.

Mrs. Wertheim was most indignant, Breeckow terrified
and nerve-shattered. Once again there was no possibility
of Curtis putting up a good defence, for when it was
explained to him that the eagle on his American passport
had its claws the wrong way on, and was short of a feather
or two, Breeckow broke down and wrote a full confession.
The trial was at the Old Bailey, before three High Court
Judges and a jury, and he was sentenced to death. Mrs.
Wertheim received ten years’ imprisonment, it being suc¬
cessfully argued that she had acted throughout under the
influence of the man. Curtis appealed against the death
sentence, but without result.

When Breeckow was assisted out of his cell, five weeks
later, to face the firing squad, he was delirious with fear.
He babbled incoherently, and dragged out of his pocket
a lady’s handkerchief, which he asked should be tied
round his eyes in place of the official bandage. The
handkerchief was too small, and while the soldiers waited,
the commandant knotted it to the bandage to provide a
makeshift cover. In point of fact, Breeckow the musician,
unlike the courageous Buschman who had found solace
in his music before his last appearance, died from heart
failure before a bullet touched him. As the order to fire

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was given, he slumped forward in the wooden office chair
that was always used for executions in the Tower. He
was dead.

Most of these spies were first questioned by Mr. Basil
Thomson, later Sir Basil, the head of the C.I.D. at Scodand
Yard. He was an expert at sharp-shoodng his questions
so as to take suspects off their guard, and though there
was never a suspicion of the Third Degree about his
examinations, he could change his tactics with a rapidity
that bewildered many a man who imagined he had nothing
to fear.

Curtis-Bennett came to know Basil Thomson well, and
since it was his preliminary word that usually left Curtis
without a leg to stand on when he appeared in court to
defend a spy, he came to have a very high regard for his
ability. Their friendship was to last through the years.

Another spy defended by Curtis-Bennett was the close-
shaven, iron-jawed German-American who never revealed
his real name, but who was known as Irving Guy Ries.
He had been picked up by the German espionage service
in New York, and had actually been a film operator,
though he tried to pose as a merchant in England, and
went to considerable trouble to give substance to that
illusion. Here, again, was another case of a man facing
a firing squad mainly because he was kept short of money
by his employers, for it was a letter addressed to him
through Holland, and containing the exact amount usually
supplied to spies, that led to his being suspected. Ries
had had to make application for further funds ; and with
a criminal lack of imagination, the German Intelligence
sent him the sum that was known to be the usual monthly

54

WARTIME

payment. Confirmation was soon forthcoming that his,
American passport was forged, and another spy stood
facing a court martial on October 4. Curtis did his best,
but it was sufficient to prove that a man had been in
communication with a known spy address for him to be
convicted. The charge against Ries, indeed, was that
he had “ done an act preparatory to the commission of
an act ” prohibited by D.O.R.A., “ namely, an act pre¬
paratory to collecting information that might be useful
to the enemy.” His refusal to give his correct name was
from an honourable motive, for he wished to save his
parents from the knowledge of his end. When he faced
the rifles, he provided evidence of his bravery. “ You
are only doing your duty, as I did mine,” he said, and
shook hands with every member of the firing-party.

Curtis-Bennett did not relish these briefs, and would
have evaded them if it had been possible. Always sen¬
sitive to atmosphere, he shrank from the grim reality of
this phase of the War. He could not bring himself to
regard these blundering, doomed creatures as dangers to
the State, whom it was wise to do away with, and he was
not the type to perform his duty and forget. The days
of the executions he suffered acutely. But there was no
other course open to him. And it is perhaps illustrative
of the attitude of the War Office that these spies were
given the free benefit of defence by one of the leading
counsel of the day.

Curtis-Bennett next defended, in October, 1915, a man
whose first trial resulted in a disagreement of the jury,
brought about by Curtis-Bennett’s eloquence.

The prisoner was a British subject who was on a music-

55

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. hall tour in Germany when war broke out. In Ruhleben
he took advantage of the better treatment afforded to
those who professed to favour Germany, and in due
course it was suggested to him that he might undertake
spying for Germany. When he came to England, with
a story that he had been released owing to ill-health, he
was naturally allowed to travel where he wished, and no
suspicion fell on him till “ Security Services ”— tha t
department which found so many chinks in the spies’
armour—intercepted the scores of two songs, signed
“Jack Cummings, Palace Theatre, London.” No such
person existed, and further chemical treatment of the
scores revealed messages written between the bars of
music. It was with some difficulty that “ Jack C umming s ”
was proved to be identical with a music-hall artist then
appearing in a trick cycling act in Glasgow. When he
appeared before Mr. Thomson on suspicion, the prisoner
admitted that he had promised to serve the Germans in
order to obtain his release, but had in fact never had any
intention of keeping his promise once he had arrived in
this country. He explained away the presence of secret
ink in his luggage, and admitted that he had at one time
endeavoured to obtain a position in the postal censorship
department. The only fact which incriminated him seri¬
ously was his dispatch of a secret message in the score
of music, though here again he had something of an
excuse, for he said that if the Germans had suspected
him of obtaining his release on false pretences, he feared
that he would be assassinated.

His story had the makings of a good defence in it, and
when he appeared before a Judge and jury at the Old

56

WARTIME

Bailey, Curtis-Bennett presented a reasoned and convinc¬
ing explanation of his actions. As to the message in the
score of music, he suggested that there was nothing there
that could not be read in an English newspaper, and
that obviously the prisoner was merely trying to send
something that would keep the Germans quiet, that would
earn him money, and that would preserve him from an
attack which he genuinely feared.

Curtis was in his element with the jury. He played
on the fact that the prisoner was the first British national
to be accused of espionage during the War, and after his
long and emphatic speech to the jury, the foreman an¬
nounced that they could not reach agreement upon a
verdict.

There was, however, some surprise when it was an¬
nounced that there would be another trial with a new
jury.

The new trial was held eight days later, and the prisoner
was committed to penal servitude for life—no doubt the
previous jury’s disagreement had saved his life.

This view was also taken by the press. “ The public
will undoubtedly feel that the sentence is lenient,” said
the newspapers, “seeing that the prisoner is a British
subject. We can only assume that there were circum¬
stances which led the Judges to take this view of the
crime, and we rely on what we know of them in believing
that the punishment is adequate.”

Ten days later two detectives walked into a quiet London
hotel and confronted a woman, named Eva de Bournonville,
with the charge of being engaged in espionage.

The following day, when Basil Thomson showed how

57

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letters signed by herself yielded to certain treatment and
showed wri ting in invisible ink, she said: “ How did
you find out ? ” Then she asked to be allowed to speak
to Mr. Thomson alone. “ You know,” she said, “ I hate
the Germans, and really want to work for you. I was
trying to make them believe I was working for them. . . .”

Before Curtis-Bennett received his brief to defend her,
she had told a great deal more about herself to the authori¬
ties, and her information, added to what was known
already, again caused astonishment at the naivete of the
majority of spies sent to England by the German Intelli¬
gence Service. Eva de Bournonville was a Swede who
was short of money—and perhaps that tells the gist of
the story. She had travelled widely about Europe in
various occupations, and had a ready command of lan¬
guages, like most of her people. She was well born and
moderately intelligent, and she believed that if she played
a simple game of double bluff in England she would be
safe and would earn the miserable £8 a week offered her
for risking her life.

It was easy to get to England with her Swedish pass¬
port, and through friends she had met in Europe she
endeavoured to obtain references good enough to get
herself into “ Security Services ”—“ in order to help the
English.”

Here, however, she failed, and for some months she
tried to earn her salary by making childish inquiries from
everyone she met about the situation of anti-aircraft
defences, the numbers of “ regiments ” at Wellington
Barracks, and the movement of troops at Tidworth.
When she moved to an hotel much frequented by officers

58 ,

WARTIME

on leave, and began asking young subalterns similar
questions, they reported her. When arrested, she still
had in her possession a cheque which had innocently
been sent through the Danish Legation addressed to a
non-existent Belgian prisoner. Her letters were easily
recognizable and read, and it was obvious that she might
stumble on a series of facts of real value. Once more,
therefore, Curtis-Bennett was given a brief that was hope¬
less from the start. Eva de Bournonville had no defence,
and the best her counsel could do was to plead that she
had been led to imperil her life in this way by the German
Military Attache at the Legation in Denmark. Mr. Justice
Darling passed the death sentence, this sentence being later
commuted by the Home Secretary to penal servitude for
life.

Curtis railed at the hopelessness of his task in these
cases, but there was no possibility of avoiding them.
The briefs from solicitors instructed by the War Office
fell even more frequently on his desk as the “ Security
Services ” dealt efficiently and rapidly with Germany’s
new drive to learn England’s secrets. Much of his time
was also taken up with appearances before the tribunals
that sat in judgment on claims to “ indispensability.”
He was always at home before the magistrates who formed
these tribunals in town halls and guildhalls, and the
work seemed never-ending, for it was seldom that any
man was given release from military duties for more
than a few months at a time. Twice more he appeared
at the Old Bailey and in courts martial in spy cases
before he gained, for the first time, an acquittal for a
suspect.

59

This was the only suspect brought to trial who was
not convicted, and certainly the evidence against him
appeared to be very slight.

His name was Johann Christian Zahle Lassen, a Dane,
who professed to be travelling in whisky, but, unfortun¬
ately for himself, appeared to be trying to do business
only in those towns where the foreigner was least desired
in wartime. His story to Basil Thomson was that he
wished to buy whisky here and re-sell it in Copenhagen,
though when it was asked how he proposed to pay ex¬
penses by taking a few dozen bottles back with him, and
why he must travel to Newcastle to make his purchases,
he was unable to give an answer. There was no evidence
that he had been corresponding with a known spy address
—the proof of which was sufficient for the prosecution
—and it seemed that the only dangerous ground traversed
by Lassen was that he had been introduced to Count
Ranzow, the German Ambassador in Copenhagen, and
had told him something of the disappointing effects of the
Zeppelin raids on London. He was pressed to say whether
any suggestion of payment had been made for this or any
other information, but this he strenuously denied. There
was also a Doctor Katz whom he admitted meeting in
Berlin, but the elderly and somewhat bewildered Dane
confessed that he never knew Dr. Katz was a member
of the German Secret Service.

The court martial at the Westminster Guildhall, at the
end of January, 1916, did not know what to make of
Johann Lassen, but after two days’ hearing, and under
the spell of Curtis-Bennett’s vigorous denunciation of the
prosecution, the prisoner was ordered back to Denmark,

60

WARTIME

with the warning that he would be wise to renounce all
ideas of returning to England during wartime.

Curtis defended at seven more courts martial and an
Old Bailey spy trial during 1916. Most important of the
spies whom he was briefed to defend was a young and
volatile German who could actually speak not a word of
English. His name was Adolfo Guerrerro, and he posed
as a Spanish journalist sent to London to write articles
for a well-known Madrid newspaper. As soon as he
arrived he took steps to secure permission for his Spanish
mistress to join him. But Raymonde Amonderain got
no further than the English coast. She was arrested, in
order to see if she could shed light on the activities of
her lover. She treated Basil Thomson to such an ex¬
hibition of temperamental fireworks when he suggested
that she liked the Germans, that he was persuaded that
she knew nothing of Guerrerro’s real work in life, and
she took little or no part in the collection of evidence
against the suspect, her only experience of this country
being a prison cell before she was sent back to Spain.
When arrested, Guerrerro stuck doggedly to his story
of Spanish newspaper connections, even in the face of the
editor’s denials. It was made certain that one part of
his story was true, however. He was in truth a twig of
the Spanish nobility, but it was also certain that he had
been seduced from neutrality by German agents, then
very active in Spain. The court martial, in July, took
three days, owing to the necessity for translating every
word into Spanish for the prisoner’s benefit, and Curtis-
Bennett made a great fight for him, wielding with great
effect evidence in the form of a letter Guerrerro had

61

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■written to Spain in which he had said : I like the English
expansive and frank character.”

But it was not through his counsel’s efforts that Guerrerro
avoided the extreme penalty. He was sentenced to be shot,
and in a heart-broken appeal from the death cell Guerrerro
asked to be allowed to see his mistress once more before
they were parted for ever; he also asked her to obtain
permission to be married. Neither request was granted,
but his sentence was commuted to one of penal servitude
for ten years.

Raymonde Amonderain revealed, before she left, yet
another example of the curious lack of imagination on
the part of the German Secret Service. Her lover had
asked her to call at an address in London for papers. It
was the same address that had been used by other spies.

Curtis-Bennett’s efforts on behalf of the spies he defended
aroused such admiration that a senior member of the staff
of the Secret Service, who was usually the chief witness
for the prosecution, told him that he was too good, and
jokingly suggested that he should not be allowed to
defend spies. The joke was continued, an order was
drawn, in official language, “prohibiting” Curtis from
defending any more. This Curtis prized, and had hung
up in his flat.

6z

CHAPTER VI
Secret Service

O ne evening, early in 1917, Curtis fell in with his
old friend Sir Archibald Bodkin as they walked
westward from the Temple in the evening.

Sir Archibald, as Senior Treasury Counsel, was in
charge of all proceedings against spies and others who
were to be tried for serious war offences.

Suddenly Sir Archibald said: “My good friend, I
know of a job that would suit you down to the ground.”

Without further explanation, he took Curtis-Bennett
by the arm and led him to offices at the corner of Charles
Street, Haymarket. It was the head-quarters of the Secret
Service, nerve centre of the British counter-espionage
system. In a few weeks, in November, Curtis-Bennett
was in the uniform of a lieutenant of the R.N.V.R. and
a member of the head-quarters staff of the Secret Service.

It was long past the days when British Intelligence,
“.starting from scratch” years before the War, prac¬
tised crude schoolboyish experiments with invisible ink
and rice paper, but not yet had the great “ spy scare ”
quietened down, and throughout England men and women
were still hearing suspicious noises at night which they
were sure meant preparations for sabotage; were still
seeing messages transmitted to German cruisers a hundred

63

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miles away by the flapping of a bedroom blind in the
wind; they were still attributing the most elaborate private
lives to inoffensive German governesses and naturalized
Germans who were innocent as the day.

Curtis-Bennett’s immediate chief had been concerned,
the day before the outbreak of war, in the netting of every
G erman spy then in England. The public, however, was
disposed to think that the country was over-run with
spies, that the most confidential Government departments
were mann ed by them, and that such a thing as an effi¬
cient counter-espionage system was non-existent. Curtis-
Bennett found that that unenviable reputation was a blind;
German agents who came to England were given all the
rope they needed, provided eventually they hanged
themselves.

He took to this strange game of bluff and double bluff
with enthusiasm. They had found a square peg for a
square hole. He was the man of the world among the
soldiers, sailors and policemen with whom he was now
working, and they used his supreme ability to read char¬
acter and motive to great effect. It is no exaggeration
to say that, after a short time, he was in possession of
as many secrets of the anti-spy war as any other man in
England. He was one of the favoured few who were
given a sight of completed documents after they had been
decoded or translated. These translations were made by
a special department, but as a precaution, no man was
allowed to deal with an entire page ; the work was split
up among the staff, so that not until the document reached
the highest authorities, could it be read in its entirety.

Unlike the policy in other countries during the War,

64

CALLED TO THE BAR; AT THE ADMIRALTY; SILK, 1919

WITH " MARSHALL ” AFTER THE FAHMY TRIAL WITH " JIMMY " CASSELS AT LEWES

SECRET SERVICE

England insisted on legal business as usual, even when
taking action against those who might be dangerous to
the nation. The Law Officers of the Crown had to be
satisfied that the military authorities throughout the
country had acted with strict legality. Decisions as to
the course to be followed were dictated by Curtis-Bennett,
who thus found himself on the other side of the espionage
game.

It was a busy life.and a happy one, though he lost all
touch with his home life, and contented himself with
one-room flats, first in Bury Street and then in Albemarle
Street, where his wife saw him occasionally. Gone were
the week-ends at Boreham, the house in Essex to which
his father would have retired had he lived and to which
he had moved in 1916 ; gone, too, were the long motor-
drives on which he could relax, and the golf that he found
so good for him. His hours were unconventional, and
his mealtimes unregulated. He was the soul of discretion
about his work, and only to the most intimate members
of his family was there revealed something of the drama
in which he took part—and that long after the War, after
he had left the Secret Service. He was no mere office¬
holder in naval uniform, keeping to regular hours at a
desk, and it is known that on several occasions he took
an active part in the outdoor life of an investigator. The
naval uniform was not worn for days at a time, and his
wife was more than once surprised to find him in civilian
clothes. Once she heard her name spoken behind her
in Bond Street. She turned to find him standing in the
street, in a lounge suit. He had not been able to resist
surprising her.

65 F

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One of the most dramatic stories told by Curtis-Bennett
of those war days concerned the conspiracy in Paris that
preceded the Russian Revolution. The British Intelligence
Service knew most details of the secret conferences that
were being conducted. It was known that the downfall
of the regime was cut and dried, and that very shortly
the result of those Paris intrigues would seriously thr eaten
the Russian front. There was nothing to be done, but
it was both the policy and the function of his Department
to be informed and prepared for the worst.

It was decided that all communications in this con¬
nection passing between Paris and Petrograd should
be tapped. In wartime many things are forgiven, but
it was a ticklish problem to have to examine the papers
of an ally travelling through England. One of the most
important emissaries of the Russian Revolutionary Tribunal
in Paris planned to carry dispatches via England, join a
convoy in Scotland, and proceed to Petrograd. He was
a distinguished general of the Russian army, travelling
of course in uniform, and when he landed in London
he carried a common sack bound with rope, handcuffed
to his wrist for additional safety, and sealed with the
Imperial stamp. This bag contained a number of locked
official pouches.

Curtis-Bennett used to say that in every respect, even
to the employment of women decoys, the story of the
Russian general followed the finest examples of William
Le Queux. The general was an imposing figure, and
though on the face of it he should have felt himself safe
in the territory of an ally, he was taking no chances. He
was secure in his diplomatic privileges, was officially en-

SECRET SERVICE

gaged on high State business, and enjoyed every hospitality
and facility from the authorities of an allied Power. But
State Intelligence Services are sometimes obliged to strain
the laws of etiquette.

Attempts were made to persuade the gallant officer to
stay in London for a time; he proved inflexible in his
purpose, even in the face of the most seductive female
temptations. He caught the night mail to Scotland with¬
out having given any hint of being amenable to the many
pleasures set before him by the ingenuity of British
Intelligence. But the word had gone forth that he must
not leave England before those papers had been examined.

Three men travelled in the same train, and in their
pockets they had two drugs that could not fail to render
the general insensible for several hours. In the country
hotel of a little Scottish port they found an opportunity
of doctoring the general’s coffee. They satisfied themselves
that he had drunk it, and walked confidently into his
bedroom that night. As they walked in, a powerful
flashlight was directed straight into their eyes, and they
had the uncomfortable feeling that they were also faced
with a revolver. The general seemed to be drug-proof.

He embarked next day and a harassed special agent
sent word to London that the plot had failed. But it
must not fail. The convoy would be stopped. They
must try again—and succeed. This time they could use
a special drug; the urgency of the position must justify
the taking of grave risks.

By special signal the convoy was stopped, and in con¬
sequence the general was informed that pending sailing
orders he must postpone his departure and remain ashore.

67

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He returned to the hotel with bad grace, and that night
he uns uspectingly swallowed the drug. This time there
was no flashlight in their eyes when the three agents entered
his room. They released the handcuff with a master key
and took the bag intact with its contents.

In those days it was impossible to transport the elaborate
testing paraphernalia for secret ink and for other mysteries.
It was necessary for the documents to be sent back to
London for the treatment of experts. A “ Clear the Line ”
order had gone out, and a special engine was waiting at
the Scottish port with steam up. It left immediately for
London with the precious bag, and was met by Curtis-
Bennett at the London terminus in the early hours of the
morning.

The experts concerned had been warned for immediate
and urgent duty, and within half an hour of the engine’s
arrival in London, the contents of all the pouches were
being subjected to the most technical treatment, and were
then carefully re-packed.

A difficulty was presented by the broken rope and the
broken seals. An expert was meanwhile engaged on
making a die that could be used for re-stamping the seals.
The rope was given to assistants with instructions that,
at all costs, an exactly similar piece must be found. Covent
Garden market was combed and the requisite piece of
rope obtained.

The “ Clear the Line ” signal was sent out again, and
within eight hours the engine was on its return journey
to Scotland. The general still slept, and when he woke
up he found the sack still handcuffed to his wrist, the
rope was uncut, and the seals unbroken. He sailed to

68

SECRET SERVICE

Petrograd with the feeling, no doubt, that though an
attempt had been made on his diplomatic immunity,
it had failed. The Russian Revolution was no surprise
to the authorities in England—the detailed plans for the
collapse of the existing regime; the names of the chief
conspirators, and the probable extent of their revolu¬
tionary activities, were known in London before they
were known in Petrograd.

And a very tired, but vastly pleased barrister in naval
uniform went to bed after twenty-four hours on duty.

Security Services daily provided comedy and tragedy,
a macabre or farcical succession of O. Henry short stories.
Through their hands passed the cases of an astonishing
company of men and women, the dregs of the streets
and the docks, fugitives from other lands, and suspects
who were betrayed by their own involuntary impulses.
Curtis-Bennett was the preliminary adviser of their probable
innocence or guilt.

It was said of him that he could tell at once whether
a man was lying or telling the truth. Most barristers
are psychologists, and here was a man who later on in
life was to gain a national reputation for judgment of
character, gaining invaluable training for himself and at
the same time giving invaluable service to his country.
Much of it was tentative work, particularly when Security
Services played the game of double-bluff and supplied
“ information ” to the enemy, for which German money
was actually paid over. Very soon after 1916, British
agents were working for the German Intelligence Depart¬
ment in England. Some of them had crossed the frontier
into Germany, posing as traitors or as German-born

69

citizens, and were sent back to England for the collection
of information.

They had instructions to obtain posts in munition
factories or in Government Departments, in arsenals or
at training depots, and part of the duties of Security
Services was to see that these men reached their objectives.
The information they sent back to Germany had a double
purpose; it confused headquarters, led the German staff
to come to curious decisions, and resulted not only in
large sums of money being paid into this country (to the
material advantage of the counter-espionage departments)
but, in addition, it provided valuable information as to
exactly what the Germans wished to know, and what
plans they had in contemplation.

Curtis-Bennett’s work in this connection was delicate.
The details given had to be plausible, and the success of
the pseudo-German spies in this country had to be marked,
but not too sensational. On many occasions Curtis-
Bennett would ponder deeply on the advisability of allowing
“ X,” who had received orders to obtain a post in a North
Country munitions factory, to “ succeed ” in his applica¬
tion. Was it not time that “X” reported a failure?
Was he not becoming too good an agent to be true?
Had it been discovered that his last piece of information
was entirely false ? Curtis-Bennett, with the key men of
his department, thought with the brains of the other side,
put himself in their position, announced a decision on
which a man’s life might be at stake.

The most brilliant exponent of this most hazardous
branch of espionage was a young officer whose real identity
was known to no man except the Chief. He had the

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peculiar gift of talking French with a German accent,
and German with a French accent. He had been a regular
officer before the War, but at the outbreak of war he
had volunteered to fill the most dangerous role of all.
He would enter Germany, pose as an Alsatian with a
grievance against the English, and suggest that he should
work in England as a German agent. He knew what
risks he faced, and he knew the thoroughness of the
German Investigation into the bona-fides of a German
agent. He told Curtis-Bennett subsequently that as a
part of the test in Germany he had been put through a
Third Degree that must have been terrifying to a man
with so perilous a secret. Over a period of twenty-four
hours he was woken up every hour and questioned for
ten minutes. Insinuations were made that he was an
English spy; he was told that if he would confess to
being a spy he would be allowed to sleep in peace, and
would be repatriated; his mind was played upon, he was
flattered, he was bullied, and informed that the War was
over, and there was no more need for pretence. But he
kept his senses. It was only part of the routine test
undergone by all applicants for important posts in the
German Intelligence Service.

Coming to England soon after the Silvertown explosion,
he received orders that munition factories all over the
country must be blown up. German head-quarters wanted
to read in the English papers of terrible disasters week
after week. Dockyards, ammunition dumps, arsenals and
factories must burst into flame. Security Services got to
work.

It was, however, a difficult task. The department could

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provide the explosions, and Fleet Street photographers
could obtain pictures of devastating wreckage in various
parts of the country. The reports that went back to
Germany from their paid agents could be dictated, but
the difficulty was that the German Intelligence Depart¬
ment judged the results mainly from the English news¬
papers, and it was not feasible to alarm the British
public every week by an account of a disastrous ex¬
plosion that would seriously stem the tide of shells and
guns.

German Intelligence was told that the production of
armaments was practically crippled. Sabotage was what
German Intelligence wished to hear about; very well
then, they should be satisfied.

Curtis-Bennett could never conceal his admiration for
the chief actor in the drama, the young officer who walked
in daily danger of death as a traitor. He planned with
him his future movements, and with the information at
his disposal of the character and history of every man in
German Intelligence, sought to read the thoughts of the
opposition like a skilful chess-player. The comparison is
strangely applicable, for long after the War there was a
dramatic meeting between a former officer of Security
Services and the Chief of the German Intelligence Depart¬
ment. The two men met in London, and each discovered
that his intimate knowledge of the character, history, and
mentality of the other was so complete as to be embarrass¬
ing. Each had had in his possession, during the War, a
complete record of the other’s upbringing, education,
tastes and dislikes; each had been accustomed to think-
ing “ with the mind of the other.” And they sat down

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and played chess, two men who had no secrets from each
other.

Curtis-Bennett was well known in Germany. He learned
that German Intelligence had photographs of him from
his early youth. He was studied critically, his career was
examined, his every decision analysed. All to one end ;
so that in this strange game of bluff, the character readers
on one side could hazard a guess as to the reactions of
the metaphysicians on the other.

The greatest coup of the young officer was to send to
Germany the “ secret plans ” of a “ mystery battleship,”
that existed only in the minds of the Naval Intelligence
Service. The ship was supposed to have miraculous
qualities, a speed unheard of even in these days, and
armaments that were invincible. It was said to be await¬
ing a chance to make a raid that would settle, once and
for all, the future of the German fleet. Perhaps it was
with some envy that its imaginary plans were drawn up,
but it was the German Intelligence Staff that asked for
the actual plans, and the young officer received a large
sum of money for supplying them.

Security Services was most ingenious when it was
decided to “ keep alive ” a spy who had been shot in the
Tower. The essential information extracted from the
spy was his method of transmitting messages. He had
a fairly obvious go-between, but the Department wanted
to check every link in the chain. The handwriting depart¬
ment, where any kind of handwriting, on any kind of
paper, in any language, could be copied, made short work
of producing an exact facsimile of one of his reports. He
was dead, but for some time afterwards his salary came

73

regularly to England for his use, reports were left for
him, and he was congratulated on the information that
he had been sending. The Germans were eventually-
believing anything they were told, particularly after the
“ fantastic ” story of the “ landships ” proved to be
true. And in return, Security Services were receiving
indirect reports of every activity developing in the enemy
mind.

A critical time came when the officer mentioned above
was recalled to Germany. It was customary for spies to
remain in England only for four months at a time, after
which they were removed from possible temptation, and
returned to undergo another test. Once more the officer
took his life in his hands and pitted his cool brain against
the Third Degree, conscious that even for a man without
a guilty secret the test was a considerable hardship. He
emerged once again successful, and returned to England
with express orders that he must somehow penetrate into
the British Intelligence.

Here, indeed, was a situation likely to appeal only to a
poker player; an Englishman paid by the Germans to
impersonate an Englishman. After an artistic delay, he
was “ appointed ” one of the staff. He sent descriptions
of naval guns that would have appeared valuable to
anyone without his special knowledge, plans of fortresses
that had been scrapped or which were obsolete, and full
information about his superiors.

These were nerve-racking days and nights for a man
who was always highly-strung. Curtis-Bennett had private
worries as well, for he could not prevent himself from
looking forward to the time when he must try and pick

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up his lost practice. He had saved little money, and had
it not been for his wife, who kept Boreham Lodge going,
he would have suffered even more severely. He was
himself living on the small salary appropriate to a lieutenant
in the Navy. In 1917 he was moved to the civil side of
counter-espionage work. He still ranked as a Naval
officer on the reserve, and still wore uniform. Sir Basil
Thomson was then head of the C.I.D. and chairman of
an informal committee, perhaps the most important and
powerful in England, to interview suspects. Sir Basil,
though himself an expert in cross-examination, welcomed
an adviser of Curtis-Bennett’s talents. In October, 1917,
Curtis-Bennett became his assistant, one of an august
triumvirate that included, as its third delegate, a military
officer who was frequently changed.

The Committee, which was un-named throughout the
War and which, indeed, was never mentioned even in
Court, knew all the secrets of espionage. It sat in a long
room overlooking the Embankment, and when the prisoner
entered, accompanied by two detectives, he had to walk
towards the desk of Basil Thomson, flanked by the desks
of Curtis-Bennett and the third member.

There was dead silence as he came into the room. But
as he reached the desk, Basil Thomson would request
him to be seated, in an arm-chair that faced his inquisitors
and ensured that his face would be in the full light.

There was something peculiar about that arm-chair.
Basil Thomson noticed that whenever the suspect was
faced with a critical question, when he realized that perhaps
his life depended on his answer, he would draw himself
forward by the arms, as if to extricate himself from a

75

position of inferiority. He remarked on this to Curtis-
Bennett.

“Don’t you know?” said Curtis-Bennett. “Go and
sit in it yourself.”

Basil Thomson faced Curtis-Bennett as suspect to judge,
and felt at once an irresistible desire to raise his face to
the level of Curtis-Bennett.”

"It’s a low chair,” said Curtis-Bennett. “Always,
when you want to get the truth out of a man, put him
in a c hair lower than yourself.” And Basil Thomson
ingeniously capped this by suggesting that in a Court of
Law the cross-examiner should be accommodated in a
kind of lift, and should be elevated above a witness before
his cross-examination began!

In that low chair sat Mata Hari, Casement, and a host of
others ; spies, or innocent but suspected men and women
whose appearance spoke eloquently enough of their curious
international background; mercenary agents, working
the most dangerous game in the world solely for cash;
gallant gentlemen who became agents solely out of a
sense of duty; small, inefficient, and contemptible spies
who were self-doomed before they got half-way across the
room.

Curtis-Bennett had great admiration for Basil Thomson’s
methods. He was an expert cross-examiner, specializing
in that rapid and unexpected change of tactics which
confused a guilty man. He could be softly blandishing,
polite and conversational; suddenly he would change
to a fiercely incredulous and impatient critic. Curtis-
Bennett showed that he could be an imposing figure.
He was suave and skilful in his questioning, but if he

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found that he was not gaining confidence, he would stand
up, loom over his desk, and present an indignant front.

The combination of Basil Thomson and Curtis-Bennett
was perfect. They took turn and turn about with ques¬
tions that torpedoed the defences of a guilty man. Much
of the information was already in their possession before
ever a suspect came into that office, but there was a possi¬
bility of adding to that knowledge by judicious questioning.
It was here that Curtis-Bennett’s knowledge and skill at
cross-examination proved of such a value.

It was not all routine work. There was drama, some¬
times pathos, in that room, and an eye-witness of the
scene has given a picture of Curtis-Bennett at a time
when the emotional strain of those days had made him
a tired man, physically and mentally fatigued as a result
of long days and nights of work. “ One of the suspects,”
he relates, “ was a young German Naval officer who had
been rescued from a vessel destroyed by mines off the
South East coast. All his papers had been rescued, and
although he was on his way to the United States, the
papers showed beyond doubt that he had been engaged
in espionage in England. He was caught red-handed,
and had already been before the interviewing committee
twice. Now, the third time, he thought he was answering
for his life.

“ He was 23 years of age, clean-limbed, with fair hair,
and frank blue eyes. Curtis-Bennett invited him almost
paternally to sit down. Politely, he bowed to his inter¬
viewers and prepared to answer questions with composure,
though he thought there was no escape from the firing
squad. His English was perfect, and when he hesitated

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over a word, he apologized with a smile. He was cornered,
unable to deny his guilt. But he would divulge nothing.
Neither Basil Thomson nor Curtis-Bennett tried to bluster.
The atmosphere was tense and melancholy.

“He was dismissed, and he knew that he would not
see that Committee again. He stood up, clicked his heels
and bowed. ‘ Gentlemen,’ he said, * before leaving your
presence, you will perhaps allow me to apologize for
failing to answer many of your questions. But while
thanking you for the courtesy you have shown me, I am
consoled by the knowledge that had our positions been
reversed, each one of us would have behaved as I have
done.’

“He bowed again, and was gone. The moment the
door closed behind him and his guards, Curtis-Bennett
—always emotional and who had been affected by the
human side of the tragedy—said : ‘ My God ! I should
like to run after that fellow and shake him by the hand.’
He had seen a gallant youth in distress, and for the moment
sentiment had been the paramount feeling in his heart.”

In the case of the young German officer, however,
there was an anti-climax that provided the final touch
of drama, an O. Henry situation that Curtis-Bennett
appreciated to the full, although he had so entirely placed
himself within the identity of the other man that it did
not serve to lessen his grief. The officer did not know
that the worst fate that could befall him was internment
as a suspect, for he had been arrested outside the three-
mile limit. Curtis-Bennett knew that, but his emotion
was expressed on the part of the individual who was
certain that he was on the way to a blank wall and a firing

SECRET SERVICE

squad. It was a perfect example of the way Curtis adopted
the personality of another human being; it was some
time before he could put out of his mind the torment of
that admirable young man who had so signally revealed
his character.

79

CHAPTER VII

“Taking Silk”

A fter the war Curtis had to make a difficult decision
if he was coming back to a practice with which he
had lost all connection for two years. His name had
been absent from the newspaper columns and he feared
that the public would have forgotten all about him. He
decided, however, to “ take silk.” Only two K.C.’s had
been appointed during the War, and the list was likely to
be the longest in history. “Taking silk” is always a
dangerous matter for a barrister. If he has a good practice
at the Junior Bar it by no means follows that with the
magic letters K.C. after his name he will enjoy similar
success. He was now in competition with the best brains
the Bar had to give, and so far as the criminal Bar is con¬
cerned there is little room for more than one or two King’s
Counsel who specialize in Criminal and licensing work.
But, with a large number of others, including Patrick
Hastings, one of his oldest friends, he was duly sworn
in before the Lord Chancellor and took the Oath which
ironically enough includes the words: “... for any
■‘matter against the King where the King is party I will
: take no wages or fee of any man.”

On the face of it this would mean that a K.C. must
never appear for the defence; for some time, indeed, it

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was the practice for a K.C.’s clerk to ring up the authorities
when a defence brief came in, to obtain formal permission
to take sides against the King, and for a small fee to be
paid for it.

His decision was soon justified, and even though Marshall-
Hall was still very much in the forefront, within three
years the name of Curtis-Bennett was mentioned in nearly
every big criminal case. As in the early days of his career,
his old friend Freke Palmer played a large part. Freke
Palmer kept a list of the fees he paid to counsel during
every year he was in practice. As long ago as 1888 he
was briefing such men as Charles Gill, Bargrave Deane,
Arthur Hutton, Marshall-Hall, Forrest Fulton, Sir Charles
Russell and C. W. Matthews—this at a time when Curtis
was at school at Eastbourne, a 10-year-old boy winning
most of the races at the sports. In the year of Curtis-
Bennett’s call, Freke Palmer was paying considerable sums
to Gill, Clarke Hall, Arthur Hutton, Richard Muir, Clavell
Salter, Montague Shearman, Lord Coleridge, Charles
Matthews, A. H. Bodkin, E. G. Hemmerde, W. M. Upjohn,
J. C. Priestley, and Marshall-Hall. In the first year of his
call, Curtis received just over £17 from Freke Palmer: in
1908 he was third in the great solicitor’s list after Rufus
Isaacs, K.C., and Wm. Clarke Hall. In 1909 Curtis-Bennett
headed the list; in 1910 he was second to Marshall-Hall;
in 1911 second to Richard Muir; and in 1912 he was first,
with Marshall-Hall second. In 1913 he was first, followed
by Barrington-Ward, Stuart Bevan, Ellis Hume-Williams,
Marshall-Hall, St. John Hutchinson and Holman Gregory.
In 1914 he was third after Bodkin and Hume-Williams.
In 1915-16 Curtis was first, with Marshall-Hall second,

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St. John Hutchinson third, and in five years following his
“ taking silk ” Curtis headed that representative list four
times out of five. Freke Palmer’s records show that up
to 1925 he paid Curtis £7,077, this in spite of the fact that
Curtis was not called until 1902. Up to 1925 he had paid
Marshall-Hall £5,700 and Sir Charles Gill £3,340. And
six years later, in the year 1931, he records that he paid
Curtis-Bennett £10,400 and Marshall-Hall £5,700. There
can be no more excellent illustration of the way Curtis
reached and overtook every other rival at the Bar.

Time was heavy on his hands before he was demobilized
in March, 1919. But when he first attended London
Sessions he was met by such a welcome from his colleagues
that he knew there would be little delay before he was
once again “in the swim.”

He took off his naval uniform for the last time with relief
and entered into his account book the sum of £130, his
gratuity. Perhaps, he thought, it would be some tim e
before he again entered such a large sum. But he was
soon in harness again on some well-paid cases.

The earliest case to bring good fees was the representa¬
tion of the Graham White Aviation Co. against an airman’s
claim for malicious prosecution. He appeared with Sir
Edward Marshall-Hall and his brief was mark ed 200 gs.,
the case lasting for over a week. Curtis was called upon
to play only a small part, but when, in October, the National
Canine Defence League were looking for a well-known
barrister to “ defend ” a dog which had been ordered the
death penalty for savaging, Curtis had all the publicity that
;he could possibly require and more than he desired.

Naturally, the fact that a K.C. had been employed to

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appear for the life of a dog attracted a great deal of public
attention. Twenty thousand signatures had been obtained
on a petition for a reprieve, and there were processions in
the streets, appeals on public hoardings.

The dog “ Bobs,” a nondescript animal reputed by its
defenders to possess an almost human passion for going
to the pictures, and an intelligence that seemed considerably
more acute than that of some of the thousands who devoted
weeks in the efforts for its salvation, had been sentenced
to be destroyed by the West London magistrate after
witnesses had spoken of its ferocity. The dog became
the hero of the week, had its portrait painted by a famous
animal artist, and was photographed in every conceivable
position. Curtis had been in two minds about accepting
the brief. He was always fond of animals, but he had practi¬
cally decided against appearing in circumstances of such
mass hysteria, when his children impressed upon him that
he should change his mind. In actual fact, the fate of Bobs
received more attention from the press than had some of
the human beings Curtis had defended on charges of
murder.

Once again people wrote to the newspapers calling
attention to the fact that cc in no other country in the
world ” could there have been such a furore over the fate
of an animal. The photographers were busy throughout
the week, and even contrived to take pictures of the dog
in Court, while some of the newspaper stories were pain¬
fully whimsical.

Bobs was usually fitted with a muzzle, but when he
appeared in Court with his owner, a little girl of 13, the
muzzle was taken off for appearance’s sake. Evidence

83

was given that Bobs had on two occasions attempted to bite
policemen, and several witnesses had said that he was a most
ferocious animal—the worst they had ever known. Six
months before, the owner had been ordered to keep hirn
under proper control as a danger to the public, and the
climax had come when a policeman, on attempting to
separate him from a dog fight, had been savagely attacked.

Curtis said he could produce fifty witnesses to say that
Bobs was a quiet animal, and cross-examined the policeman
and other adverse witnesses with great good h um our. One
of them said: “ I always carry a supply of stones in my
pocket to throw at Bobs to ward off the attack I always
anticipate. He has come at me and I have told him that
if he came nearer I would give him a whack on the nose.”

“ When the dog heard you say that, he went away ? ”
asked Curtis.

“He runs at people and frightens the children. He
growled in a bad manner and grabbed me.”

Curtis asked: “ Where ? ”

“In Seymour Street.”

“ What part of you ? ”

“ My trousers—and not in a friendly way.”

But Curtis knew that the finest evidence could be given
by the appearance of the dog itself. He himself had advised
that the muzzle should be taken off, and towards the end
of his appeal he had the dog passed to him in Court and
took it in his own hands. Fondling its head, he continued
his appeal, one hand in his pocket and the other caressing
the dog. . After giving a promise that it would henceforth
be kept in proper control, his appeal was granted, and
immediately afterwards processions formed outside the

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Court announcing the “ great news ” that Bobs had been
reprieved. But Curtis walked quietly out of the Court
without saying a word to anyone—hoping that the snap the
dog had made at his hand while on the table had been due
to nerves.

In 1919, Curtis was back again in his own form, and with
considerable satisfaction was able to put down the sum of
£5,000 as his year’s earnings. At the close of the year
he appeared in the famous Douglas-Pennant Inquiry, with
Mr. Tristram Beresford, for Colonel J.

The Honourable Violet Douglas-Pennant had been, for
a short time, Commander of the Women’s Royal Air Force.
She had been dismissed, and had made such allegations
against several officers, and against the general morality
of camps during the War, that the House of Lords had voted
in favour of a Select Committee being appointed to report.
Miss Douglas-Pennant had alleged that she had been dis¬
missed because she had tried to improve the conditions in
those camps, and had made specific allegations of conduct
which were so grave that many parents had forbidden their
daughters, who had served in the W.R.A.F., ever to make
mention of the fact. The House of Lords had appointed
the setting-up of the Committee, after an astonishing speech
in that privileged chamber by Lord Stanhope. Miss
Douglas-Pennant had also made her allegations while privi¬
leged, otherwise she would have been immediately faced by
writs. Colonel J. was the central figure in one of her
most serious allegations, in which she had said that he had
been surprised in flagrante delicto with a girl in the camp.

Miss Douglas-Pennant was, therefore, in the position
of a plaintiff in an action for wrongful dismissal. Curtis-

85

Bennett’s client had asked for a court of inquiry, and failing
that, a court martial to inquire into the allegations made
against him.

Earl Stanhope was one of the witnesses moving for the
appointment of the Committee in the House of Lords. He
had said in the House of Lords that the reason why the
Government refused an inquiry was that they feared that
scandals would come to light. He then proceeded to give
instances of immorality in the camp. Miss Pennant, he
had declared, had discovered that the Colonel in charge of
the camp had allowed girls to return intoxicated in the
early hours of the morning. Miss Pennant had been dis¬
missed after giving orders that would improve the situation.

The Chairman of the Committee at the Inquiry now asked
Earl Stanhope whether he had been satisfied with these
charges, and whether they were true or based on “ mere
gossip at the Club.”

Lord Stanhope at first said that he had been satisfied of
their truth, but later desired to withdraw some of the state¬
ments he had made in the House of Lords, and made
particular reference to Curtis-Bennett’s client, who was the
officer concerned in the incident that had been cited.

The most biting attack upon Miss Douglas-Pennant was
made by Sir Gordon Hewart, now Lord Chief Justice, on
behalf of the Air Ministry. He said that the reason for her
dismissal was that she was unable to make a success of her
job. It is a lamentable fact that this lady came to this
position saturated with suspicion, thinking the whole world
was against her.”

Mr. Patrick Hastings said: “ It should have been her
duty to supervise the obscene jester, but it seems to amuse

86

the lady even now. The behaviour of this lady is, in
fact, incredible from beginning to end.”

The Committee made public some of their conclusions
immediately after the Inquiry, and declared that the
accusation against the officer was entirely untrue. Miss
Douglas-Pennant had alleged that officers in the camp did
not want a searchlight turned on conditions there. “It
was clear to me that I was dismissed because of my efforts
to get these matters right,” she had said.

The Committee said her accusations, unsupported by
evidence, deserved censure. Their findings in full were
announced in a White Paper, and during the next month
the House of Lords debated the findings and heard Lord
Stanhope withdraw his imputation against any indivi¬
duals and apologize to the House for using unjustifiable
expressions.

It was revealed that the cost to the State for the Inquiry
would amount to over £ 10 , 000 . This was Curtis-Bennett’s
first appearance in the House of Lords, and was a useful case
to be in shortly after “ taking silk.” The next time he
appeared in the Lords was many years later, in the historic
de Clifford case.

At about this period, when Curtis was rapidly making his
way towards the £ 10,000 a year mark, the press frequently
tipped him for official posts as they became vacant. He
was twice forecast as the new Chief Commissioner of the
Metropolitan Police, and other expectations were that his
name had been considered as a possible Director of
Public Prosecutions after the resignation of Sir Charles
Mathews.

But Curtis did not want any of these posts, and indeed,

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as he totted up a total income of over £11,000 in the
year 1920, the wisdom of his decision could not be
contested.

At that time the crime calendar began to have a most
sinister appearance. It was the beginning of a period when,
to quote the words of Mr. Justice Darling, “ immorality was
rife in the cities ” and there was an immediate increase in
a certain kind of case in which Curtis was to gain very
considerable renown.

To cope with the growing evil, the police began to make
periodic drives against the more outward signs of im¬
morality. There was a steady stream to the Courts of
alleged abortionists, to be dealt with by the Judges, when
convicted, with uniform severity.

One of the worst of the abortion cases was that of a
Doctor Devi Sasun, a coloured man who went to prison
for ten years for the manslaughter of a girl on whom he had
performed an illegal operation.

Curtis got him acquitted of the charge of murder after
cross-examining three doctors and Sir Bernard Spilsbury.
The evidence was that the police had taken statements from
1x6 women who had been treated by Sasun over a period
of fifteen years. The girl’s body had been found left in
an archway, and there were particularly gruesome details
of his long career.

Sentencing another abortionist (defended by Curtis-
Bennett), Mr. Justice Darling called attention to the need
for a strong law. “ Such practices have increased since
the War,” he said, “ and I, myself, believe that the con¬
sciences of a great many people have been deadened to the
mischief and the crime and the sin of such practices. . . .

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The common, subject of conversation among young men
and girls is pregnancy.”

Curtis enjoyed conducting a cross-examination in ■which
he could tear to pieces the evidence of a doubtful witness.
After a morning’s hard work during which he had been
on his feet without a rest, he would appear as fresh as when
he began, and say : “ That’s the kind of day I enjoy.”

One of his best successes was when he appealed against
the conviction of a clergyman alleged to have accosted
young women in the Strand. As usual, two constables
were the only witnesses for the prosecution, and Curtis
asked them if they had not noticed that the defendant had
a limp ? The police thought they were being led into a
trap, and were emphatic that the man they saw behaving
improperly was not physically afflicted. Curtis then had
everything his own way, producing evidence to show that
the clergyman had a pronounced limp as the result of an
accident. An easier victory came when he appealed against
the sentence on a company director for procuring a false
passport for a young girl whom he took to Paris. She
was only 16, but he was able to prove that she herself had
wrongly stated her age, and when he asked her to stand up
in Court she revealed herself as a girl with every appearance
of being at least 20 years of age. Curtis put the girl’s father
in the witness-box, and said : “ Do you know the defendant
approached your wife on the question of marrying her ? ”
The father agreed. “ In fact they are now married,”
suggested Curtis. The answer was that the trip to Paris
had been followed by marriage.

The Gambling and the Lottery Laws brought more
briefs. There was the famous Golden Ballot prosecution

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in which Curtis defended the organizer. The promoters,
whose bona tides were beyond question, had mystified the
police considerably. In the advertising literature it had
been announced that after a hundred years of doubt some¬
body had discovered a method of holding a lottery without
infringing the Act. It was asserted that this was an original
and legal scheme which had been copyrighted, but having
collected a large sum of money—over a quarter of a million
pounds—the promoters had advertised several prizes for a
plan for allocating the prizes. As the proceeds were for
an admirable charity, the police had at first held their hand,
but they had been forced to take action against what they
considered to be a breach of the Law. Mrs. Hilda Ley el,
the organizer, had admitted that though she had taken legal
advice on the subject, the Committee had so far been unable
to decide on a method of allocating the prizes.

That was when the police had first interviewed her.
Before summonses could be applied for, however, she had
gone round the country by car distributing the prizes : a
pearl necklace to a cook, a motor-car to a man who could
not possibly afford it. The prosecution stated that Mrs.
Leyel had worked very hard and very successfully and had
charged nothing for her services. This was a lottery for
a real charity purpose. Curtis said that he thought Mrs.
Leyel must have been badly advised. All the prizes had
been presented by generous donors and had not been
deducted from the receipts. His client was not a rich
woman, and would have to pay any fine out of her own
pocket.

The Magistrate agreed with all the compliments that had
been paid to the organizer of the Golden Ballot. “ She is

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a very capable and generous-hearted person and her object
was absolutely genuine,” he said. But at the same time he
fined her £40 for her hard work, and as a result of having
ensured a huge sum of money being paid to War charity.

Since the War, Curtis had become something of an
enthusiast for racing. He had always put a pound or two
a week upon a horse, and whenever possible he went to
race meetings near London and acquired something of a
reputation in the Temple for being a good judge of horses
and a good punter. In the press there was some mention
of an eminent judge and a well-known K.C. having been
successful with a “ double ” at enormous odds, and in
Curtis-Bennett’s account books there was frequent mention
on the credit side of the results of his betting.

But he gained more knowledge of the racing game when
he was briefed, in the spring of 1920, in one of the longest
and most complicated Turf Conspiracy trials ever to be
heard in England. It lasted almost to the end of the year,
and Curtis-Bennett’s earnings from his defence of one of the
accused reached a total of 2,000 guineas. It was a strange
case. Curtis had only the watching brief with C. S. Zeffertt
when a certain Peter Christian Barrie, a horse dealer, and
one Walter Hopkins, were charged with conspiring to
obtain from Messrs. Wetherby and Sons the sum of
£167 19 s. 6d., representing the stake money of the Faceby
Plate, run at Stockton Races in the preceding October.
It was alleged that Barrie, in the name of A. Pearson,
entered a horse called Coat of Mail, and that a 3-year-old
named Jazz was substituted for it and won the race after
starting favourite at 5 to 2 against. Coat of Mail, it was
stated, was in Surrey at the time. Mr. C. F. Gill, K.C.,

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the Hon. Sir Reginald Coventry and Mr. Vernon Gattie
conducted the prosecution, and Mr. Huntley Jenkins and
Mr. Walter Frampton appeared for Barrie and Hopkins.

When arrested, Barrie was stated to have said that
Hopkins was responsible. He said he had a friend called
Pearson who had entered the horse for the Stockton Races.
Hopkins, when arrested, said he had had none of the stake
money.

Photographs were produced of the two horses. A
witness said that Hopkins had tried to sell Coat of Mail for
£1,000, and that he said he wanted to get rid of it. The
prospective purchaser heard certain rumours and eventually
refused to buy it.

That was the first day’s hearing, but during the following
week two more men were arrested. One was Cyril
Lawley, who was accused of obtaining money by false
pretences, and the other was Curtis-Bennett’s client—
Norman Wiesz, a diamond-merchant, who was charged
with conspiring to commit the same offence. The persons
alleged to have been defrauded in the case were the stock
holders of Cheltenham Races, for Weisz and Lawley were
said to have been concerned with a horse which had been
brought on the Cheltenham Race Course, hooded and
tugged and with bandages on, fifteen minutes before it
raced away with the Malvern Selling Hurdle Race. Its
name was Silver Badge, and the stake money of £189 15J.
was sent to Lawley.

The real truth of the matter, said Mr. Gill, was that there
was no such horse as Silver Badge. Lawley was posing
as the owner of an imaginary horse, and the horse which
arrived'at Cheltenham on the morning of the race had until

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recently been known as Shining More. It had previously
been taken to London by Barrie and subjected to some
treatment, in consequence of which its colour became
darker. The disguise was successful in Cheltenham, and
later witnesses described how, after its success, the horse
was restored to its original colour. The stake money was
a small consideration, said counsel, and the real object of
the fraud was an opportunity of backing the horse at long
odds. Weis2 won £1,500 as a result of two bets.

The police had been most industrious, and produced
as the first witness a stable-hand who had taken Shining
More to Hampstead and met the mare again three days later.
By this time she was darker and had a white star on her
forehead. Barrie had explained that this was the result of
using some American dope, and asked the stable-hand to
try to clean the stuff off with petrol. This was unsuccessful.
Another method of disguise had been to pull and trim
the tail. Weisz had been at Lawley’s house at Epsom, and
when arrested in his Hatton Garden office had declared it
to be a preposterous charge, as he had bought the horse
and had paid for its upkeep and tra inin g fees. The bail
allowed was heavy, Hopkins having to find £1,000, Weisz
£600, and Lawley £100.

The next day Mr. Henry Persse, the well-known trainer,
described how Hopkins had bought Jazz from him for £800.
The jockey who rode Coat of Mail at Stockton described
how he had been most impressed with his mount, but later
he had seen Jazz and realized that this was, in fact, the
horse that carried him to victory.

A bookmaker’s accountant told the court something of
Weisz’s betting account. He had won £500 on Silver

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Badge at Cheltenham at io to i, and had mentioned to
the witness later that he had heard rumours about the race
and would repay the money if they were true. A course
bookmaker stated Weisz had won another £500 on Silver
Badge from him. This witness had also spoken to Weisz
lat er about the rumours and the defendant had again
promised to repay his winnings if they were true.

Weisz had bought Silver Badge after the race, but
Lawley’s statement that the horse had been purchased at
Bristol from an army dealer was disproved.

At the close of the case for the prosecution, Curtis made
an attempt to suggest that there was no case against Weisz
to be sent to a jury for trial. “ The facts, so far as he is
concerned, are not in dispute,” he said. “ It is merely the
construction to be put upon them. Really the only
allegations against him are that he knew Shining More
was to be substituted for a horse entered as Silver Badge
and that he won considerable sums from bookmakers by
backing it.” Curtis was now joined in Court by Mr.
Douglas Hogg, K.C., who led him at the trial. All the
other defendants agreed that Weisz had known very
little about racing, and represented him as a man who was
always honest. The evidence of their activities was truly
astonishing. The horse Coat of Mail had always been
known as a pathetic-looking animal with a very poor record.
When the photographs of Coat of Mail and Jazz were
compared, the Judge agreed that there was no similarity.
“ They look like an advertisement of * before treatment
and ‘ after treatment,’ ” he remarked.

The accused men, other than Weisz, were said to have
boasted of the ease with which horses were “ rigged ” in

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England, and when they came to describe Weisz, they spoke
of him as “ a most absolute ass ” who took tips from any
tipster, a newspaper-boy on the street, or a casual friend.

Mr. Hogg told something of his life-story. He was a
Hungarian Jew, with an income of £10,000 a year, and he
had been persuaded that he would be in a much more
magnificent position if he owned race-horses. He some¬
times bet £500 a day, though he professed to know nothing
of the vocabulary of the race-course, and admitted that he
had thought a horse to be good because he had seen people
feeling its legs and back. He had asked his own book¬
maker for tips and, such is the luck of the beginner, had
won £600 from him on his own tip of a 1 2 to 1 outsider.
The gang had invited him to a West End Hotel to meet a
rajah who might buy pearls ; there was no rajah when he
got there, but he had played cards with an Australian
squatter and had been told he had lost £2,000—the squatter
later being convicted for card-sharping.

He had believed one of the accused when they sold him
a horse to run in the Grand Prix at Auteuil, though Mr. Gill,
prosecuting, said that he, though not a racing man, knew
that Longchamps was the venue of that event.

In spite of a plea for a light sentence, Weisz received
fifteen months’ imprisonment, and with the appeal Mr.
Hogg and Curtis could do no better for their client.

It was the end of the greatest racing fraud case of the
decade. It was hoped that the conditions referred to by
the accused were not generally true on the race-courses of
England, but it was noticeable that the police redoubled
their efforts in an attempt to grab the crooks who were
making vast fortunes from their unfortunate victims on the

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race-courses and in private card games. Gambling was on
the increase, and the confidence trickster, profiting by the
money that flowed easily in London at the beginning of the
boom, was playing a variation of all the old ruses of “ Rich
Australian Squatter,” “ Spanish Prisoner ” and “ Newly
discovered Gold Mine.”

The press feared that the Turf was in a bad way, and
though the Jockey Club and other racing authorities had
always efficiently administered their stringent rules, the
punter in the Sport of Kings was still being victimized by
expert and audacious rings of sharks.

That case raised Curtis-Bennett’s earnings for the year
to £11,000. It had been somewhat unexpected, and his
thoughts immediately flew to a new motor-car on which
he had set his heart. It was his first Rolls Royce, an open
tourer with an aluminium bonnet that marked it as some¬
thing unique in England. He went to buy it with boyish
impulsiveness and could now boast that he owned the
ultimate perfection in vehicles. He drove straight down
to see his son at Radley and to show him the car, which
he named “ Silver Badge,” saying that the new treasure was
the result of his industry on behalf of a man who had
become unfortunately involved in the Great Painted Horse
Case.

Though not so remunerative, a murder trial in which
Curtis-Bennett was concerned in 1920 attracted as much
public attention as the “ Painted Horse ” case. This was
that of the “ Golder’s Green Murderer,” a sex-obsessed
habitual criminal with a dark background. His name was
Arthur Andrew Clement Goslett, dark and sallow, in whose
veins there coursed negro, French, and English blood.

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Before the War he had played a dangerous game in West
Africa, operating in the diamond markets for the Illicit
Diamond Buyers, serving his sentences when he was
caught, and returning to that profitable branch of crime as
soon as he was released. Just before the War, Goslett came
to England and married—whether legally or not was never
known. He joined the Royal Naval Air Service, showed
a good knowledge of engineering, and soon received a
commission. For some time he held a position of some
responsibility, but the authorities became suspicious both
of his movements and his company. He was shadowed
by the Secret Service for suspected espionage, but passed
successfully through the test of a cross-examination at
Scotland Yard. The result was promotion in the Service.
Goslett celebrated the occasion by “ marrying ” again.

Women were his obsession, and the stout Mrs. Goslett
did not satisfy his amatory instincts. Nor did his latest
“wife.” In 1919 he went through a form of marriage
with a certain Daisy Holt, and although he now had a good
job in a Government aeroplane factory, found that it was
a grave responsibility to maintain three homes. Nor did
he always “ marry ” the girl of his choice; when he saw
a woman he coveted, Goslett invariably left the “ wife ”
who accompanied him, and made an attempt to extend his
experience as a lover.

In January of 1920, he “ married ” a fourth time. His
official home was with the real Mrs. Goslett, but it was with
Daisy Holt that he was most concerned, and Daisy was
about to have a baby. Soon, the fourth “ wife ” was also
pregnant. Goslett could handle her without difficulty;
but Daisy insisted that the man she believed to be her legal

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husband should start a home with her. He told her the
true facts. Daisy suggested that he should leave his wife;
but instead, Goslett shirked the exposure and said that
Daisy should pose as the widow of his brother and come to
live in the litde house at Golder’s Green.

It was a plan doomed to failure. Though he had
gathered two wives under one roof, there were two others
in their own homes. And Goslett, who had grown to
adopt a careless attitude towards human life while in the
gold-fields, decided to simplify his complicated existence
by the removal of at least one of his responsibilities: the
least-favoured, the first and only legal Mrs. Goslett.

Daisy attempted to force a show-down before her ill-
fated predecessor. But Goslett would not admit before
her that he had lived a life of deceit, and it was Daisy who
told the poor woman. The younger woman expected a
scene; strangely enough, Mrs. Goslett seemed unmoved;
the days of romance were dead for her; her thoughts were
only on the possibility of her husband buying her a new
house.

One night Goslett asked his wife to accompany him to
inspect a house that he promised to rent. Their way led
near the river bank. As they walked along the bank,
Goslett produced a tyre lever, struck his wife savagely over
the head, and flung her dead body into the water. He
then returned to the house where Daisy awaited him ; he
thought he had reduced his domestic worries by twenty-five
per cent.

He made no attempts to cover up the crime. He was
arrested within twenty-four hours, and charged first with
bigamy and then, when they had found Mrs. Goslett, with

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murder. He made eight statements to the police, six of
them being confessions; and though it was hardly
possible that he nursed any hope of being able to escape
the penalty for murder, he blamed Daisy Holt in most of
them.

“ I was induced to do it by Daisy Holt,” he said. “ I
had intended to do it on a previous night this week, but
my heart failed me. I killed the best woman. I am going
to have the rope, I am going down under. . . . When
I returned home I intended to. poison myself, but Daisy
was frightened and said she would like to live for the sake
of the child.”

Curtis-Bennett was briefed for the defence. It seemed
a hopeless case. But he fought valiantly to prevent the
admission of the statements as evidence, suggesting that
they had been wrongly obtained from his client. Goslett
had written at the end of one statement, “ This is King’s
evidence.” He had insisted on adding this strange remark,
said the police, but Curtis suggested that he had done so
because the police had offered some hope of leniency if he
would make a full statement. The case attracted national
attention, not because of any particular glamour attaching
to the prisoner, but because of the great legal fight made
by his advocate. Curtis, with the help of witnesses, also
represented Goslett as slightly insane. At his work
he had been known as “ crack pot ” and “ The Mad
Skipper.”

“ There is not a scrap of evidence, apart from the con¬
fession,” said Curtis in his final address. “ Can you
imagine stronger evidence of the unstability of his mind?
... it shows hallucinations of the worst kind. If he

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thought he was forced by some irresistible impulse to hill
his wife, then, he was acting under an insane delusion.”

But the Judge would not admit that definition. “ You
are not to consider whether the prisoner is eccentric or
abnormal,” he said, “ but whether he was mad. I have
never heard of a murderer who was normal, and it is well
for society that that is so. The suggestion that he mur¬
dered under a delusion is no defence.”

That was virtually the death sentence. The jury con¬
firmed it after only a short retirement. And Goslett, after
making a will in favour of his fourth “ wife,” the poor
misguided girl who was shortly to have his child, died on
the scaffold still protesting his bitterness against Daisy Holt.

xoo

CHAPTER VIII
In the First Flight

I n December, 1920, Curtis had another good brief for
200 guineas for the prosecution, with Charles Gill, in
the Eastbourne Crumbles murder trial.

The accused were Field and Gray, young artisans who
had been arrested for the murder of a young London
typist—Irene Monro. Irene had gone to Eastbourne in
August for a holiday by herself. Three days after taking
lodgings she went out for a walk, and the next day her
body was found on the lonely Crumbles, the head crushed
in with a heavy stone.

The trial was held at Lewes—a sleepy country town
which awoke to activity only when the old-fashioned
pomp and ceremony of the Assizes brought a horde of
people for a murder trial. Curtis later appeared in several
more murder cases at Lewes. He usually stayed at
Brighton, and returned refreshed after the seaside air.
Although he never enjoyed prosecutions, he took the
utmost care over the Crumbles murder case, knowing
that against him Sir Edward Marshall-Hall, Mr. J. D.
Cassels and Mr. John Flowers were assembling their
defence in what was certain to be a trial commanding
great public interest.

Both the prisoners pleaded “ Not Guilty,” and showed

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an indifference and calm as they stood in the dock that
Cuttis found only comparable, in later years, to the
confidence of Armstrong.

Jack Alfred Field, who was only 19, deliberately yawned
in the dock and thrust his hands deep in his pockets as
he listened to the preliminaries. William Thomas Gray,
the other accused, who was 28, appeared more concerned,
but when they were given seats in the dock they both
leant back with their arms crossed and listened with
apparent lack of interest to Mr. Gill’s cold, precise voice
telling the terrible details of the crime.

Irene Monro was under 18 years of age. When she
came to Eastbourne for her holiday she was poorly dressed
and lonely. She was seen in company with the prisoners
going towards the Crumbles in the afternoon. A plain
paper bag had been found on the dead girl’s body; it
would be, said Mr. Gill, an important piece of evidence.
The discovery had been made by a 13-year-old boy who
had seen the foot of the murdered girl sticking up through
the shingle. A long green coat trimmed with black fur
was shown: then a crumpled dark straw hat which had
been crushed over her head with a stone. “ The evidence
in this case,” said Mr. Gill, “ was corroborated in so
remarkable a manner as to carry conviction in the mind
of any person who considered its value.”

And indeed the prosecution seemed to have been able
to find witnesses who could testify to every movement
of the two prisoners. A barmaid knew them by name,
and had seen them just before they went to meet Irene.
Workmen had seen them go towards the Crumbles, and
although they produced an alibi in the form of a girl

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who had said she had spent the afternoon with them,
the evidence was conclusive. Poor Irene had not, per¬
haps, been an entirely respectable character: she had
agreed readily enough to accompany the two young men
to a place notorious for its alfresco romances. But when
she got there, for some reason or another, she resisted
the advances of the young men, and paid for it with her
life.

One of them had stunned her with a stick he carried,
a peculiar weapon with a bulldog’s head as the handle.
The marks of the bulldog’s ears were imprinted in the
flesh of her cheek; when they found that she was un¬
conscious and might cry out when she recovered, one
of them had killed her with a stone and then dragged
her over the shingle and buried her in a pit. J. D. Cassels
called his client. Field, but Marshall-Hall did not call
Gray. Mr. Gill seldom liked to leave more than a minor
part of his duties to his juniors. In this case Curtis
examined the witness who produced the plan, and did
not again rise to his feet.

The death sentence on Field and‘Gray, two callous and
unconcerned murderers, on December 17, was received
with complete stoicism, and when they died together,
in February, they went to the scaffold without flinching
and without distress, having made no confession.

In January, 1921, Curtis appeared in one of his most
profitable and most important motor cases. The defendant
was a man whose name was well-known in many circles.
As he was driving his car on the Great North Road it
skidded and mounted the bank, killing one child and
injuring two others. Curtis-Bennett’s brief was marked

103

200 guineas. The Defendant, who was charged with man¬
slaughter, had to contend with considerable local feeling,
and the evidence of police and other witnesses estimated
his speed at 65 miles an hour, and asserted that after the
accident he had said: “ I might have taken it too fast.”

There was applause when witnesses made statements
inimical to the Defendant. Curtis made considerable
capital out of the fact that one witness, a district councillor,
was well known locally as a critic of the speed of motor¬
cars passing through the village of Baldock. The most
damaging witnesses were members of one family. One
of them admitted that he had said that he would have
liked to have been on the jury. Several young mem¬
bers of the family gave evidence, and one of them said
that the car had “ come up the hill in a flash.” Curtis
smiled to himself and took out his watch. “ I will count
the seconds on my watch,” he said, “ and I want you
to tell me how long it took the car to travel from the
cross-roads to the top of the hill.” The witness stopped
him at the third second. “ Thank you,” said Curtis.
“As the distance was 250 yards, from your description,
the car must have been travelling at 180 miles an hour ! ”

But in spite of his destruction of the evidence against his
client, and a strong plea that he was the victim of local
feeling, the Defendant was sentenced to twelve months’
imprisonment for manslaughter. If he had wanted, Curtis
could have made much more of the plea that local feeling
had assisted in his conviction. He received anonymous
communications on black-lined paper, of which the follow¬
ing is an example: “ . . . And Christ took little children
in His arms and blessed them, and said Whoso offendeth

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against one of these, it were better he had a mill-stone
around his neck and were cast into the sea.”

He appealed against the conviction, pleading that the
accident was entirely due, not to excessive speed, but to
the condition of the road, and a slight accident when
the driver had touched the accelerator instead of the
brake. He also protested with vigour against the conduct
of the prosecuting Counsel, Sir Richard Muir, who had put
to the Defendant no fewer than eight questions, all alike,
which tended to show that he had bought the car fr r no
other reason than that it would go at great speed. “ '.se -
questions were wrongly put,” he said, “ and had el* d
from the Defendant the fact that he had had an unforti e
past record of accidents.” Mr. Justice Avory: i

repeating the question many times, Sir Richard Muir'_ j

casting the fly over a lazy fish until he bit.”

It seemed, indeed, that the Appeal Judges agreed with
Curtis-Bennett’s submissions. The summing-up, they said,
had been unfortunate, and they did not agree with the
manner of the prosecution. But the appeal failed, and
Curtis was most indignant, because he held that his case
had been hopelessly prejudiced by unprecedented conduct
aimed at the exposure of the Defendant as an habitually
dangerous driver.

In July, 1921, Curtis had a noted victory in obtaining
the reversal of a conviction against a well-known clergy¬
man who had been arrested for “ a Hyde Park offence.”
It was the first of his great defences of prominent men
whose conduct in the Park led them to be accused of
offences which resulted, in some cases, in a sentence of
infinitesimal importance compared with the disgrace that

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attended their arrest. His client was a clergyman, then
in charge of the English church at Brussels. He had
been a Cambridge Blue, Chaplain in the Navy, Chaplain
to King Edward and King George; he had been married
twenty-five years and was a devoted husband, and had come
to England to preach at the Chapel Royal.

One evening, after visiting friends at Maida Vale, he
had walked in Hyde Park and it had begun to rain. He
had spoken to two women who had laughed at his gaiters,
and one of them had made a remark to him about the
Church and had asked him for money. The clergyman
had walked on, the woman accompanying him. But they
had gone no more than a few yards before a policeman
arrested him. He had tried to assist the woman, saying
that she was a friend, and that had led to her release. For
“ annoying the woman,” he had been fined £5 by the
Marlborough Street magistrate, the police saying that he
had spoken to several women and forced his conversation
upon them. Two women had complained of his conduct
to the officers, but had refused their names and addresses.

The appeal was heard at London Sessions, and Mr.
Travers Humphreys, for the respondent magistrate, said
that it was unfortunate that people should make complaints
and refuse to give their assistance. But the police had
followed the clergyman, and if there was any explanation
of his conduct the authorities would be as glad as anyone
else. Curtis, after outlining his client’s distinguished
career, produced three admirals to speak for his character,
and put the clergyman into the witness box. Without
great trouble he obtained a decision quashing the con¬
viction, the Chairman saying that although the police

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had given their evidence fairly, the inference drawn from
their statements had been incorrect.

Curtis-Bennett’s next murder trial gave him the oppor¬
tunity of leading for the Crown. The accused was Thomas
Clanwaring, a shock-headed, dark half-breed, who was
accused of murdering Alice Maud Lawn, the proprietress
of a general shop in King Street, Cambridge. He was
opposed by Mr. A. C. Fox Davies, and the defence received
over 200 letters offering financial assistance for Clanwaring.
Curtis took two hours over his opening speech, talking
conversationally to the jury without a trace of bitterness
or persecution in his outline of how Clanwaring, according
to the Crown, had committed the murder.

It was a curious case. Clanwaring arrived in Cambridge
with a fantastic story of having lost his speech through
being blown up in the Silvertown explosion, but after
plunging into cold water at the Letchworth public baths
he had miraculously recovered it. The night before the
murder he had been so short of money that he sold his
cap for a shilling. The morning after the murder he
changed coppers into silver and silver into pounds. The
dead woman was in the habit of keeping a great many
coppers in her shop. Her body had been found lying
at the bottom of the stairs, a gag in her mouth, her fore¬
head broken by a chopper, and a piece of string round
her neck. Someone had washed his blood-stained hands
in a bowl that stood near by, and wiped them with a
tea-cloth. Money which had been in a cupboard was
missing, although there was £600 in notes upstairs. The
murder had occurred in the afternoon, and Clanwaring
could account for every hour of the day except that fatal

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hour in which Miss Lawn had died. “ If you feel that
there is any doubt in your mind that Clanwaring com¬
mitted this murder,’’ concluded Curtis, “ then he is entitled
to the benefit of that doubt.”

Strangely enough, although Curtis was so expert in
dealing with the time element in a case, it was on the
question of time that Clanwaring was acquitted. The
defence established that he had been in a public-house
1,000 yards from the shop, six minutes before he 'was
supposed to be in the shop. “ Walking at the rate of
4 miles an hour,” said the Judge, in addressing the jury,
“it would take him thirteen minutes to walk that dis¬
tance. And was Clanwaring likely to walk at even 4
miles an hour ? ” And, indeed, Curtis had had some
difficulty in eliciting reliable evidence from some of his
witnesses. One of them, for instance, stated that he had
started the morning by drinking a pint of beer at the
Dog and Pheasant; after breakfast he had had a pint of
beer at the King William; he had then drawn his pension
and had two pints of beer at the Rose and Crown; he
thought he then went back to the Kin g William.

“You were a little doubtful by that time,” suggested
Curtis.

The Farrow’s Bank case at the Old Bailey lasted for
thirteen days, establishing a record for the new court.
Curtis defended Walter Crotch. The trial had been post¬
poned from the previous Old Bailey sessions, Curtis need¬
ing more time to prepare the defence of his client after
new evidence had been called, following nine days’ hearing
in the police court. Thomas Farrow had been manager
of the bank, which had closed its doors at the end of 1920

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with a deficiency of £2,000,000. Crotch had been a
leading director, and the accountant, Frederick Hart, was
the third member of the trio to be charged.

The closing of the bank had brought immense suffering
throughout the country, for £9,000 a year had been spent
in advertising in religious papers which found their public
among frugal and thrifty people. It had paid good
dividends over a number of years, and it had been dili¬
gently represented that the bank was solvent and prosper¬
ing. But it was alleged that the balance sheets were false,
and the Attorney-General, who was at the time that brilliant
advocate Sir Gordon Hewart, K.C., M.P., stated in his
detailed opening speech that the trading loss in twelve years
was over £1,000,000. Farrow’s Bank had begun the
fashion of advertising, and other banks had followed suit.
Excellent results were obtained from this method of obtain¬
ing new clients. Then, when accountants had made an
inspection of the books, they reported to Farrow and
Crotch that the assets would not realize five shillings.

Curtis-Bennett’s client, according to one of the witnesses,
had shown remarkable philosophy when presented with
this statement. He had thrown up his hands and said:
“It cannot be helped. I knew it would have to come
sooner or later. Well, I shall now be able to retire and
start writing books.”

“ Well, Crotch,” they said to him, “ you seem to have
a sense of humour.”

He replied: “ If I believed in a hereafter, I know exactly
what I should do, but as I do not, I shall just have to
face it out.”

As soon as possible Curtis took up this point of Crotch’s

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alleged remarks. “ Mr. Crotch has written a number of
serious books on immortality,” he said, “and was very
much hurt by that statement.”

The case for the prosecution was that for no less than
twelve years Farrow had been guilty of duping the public.
He was, in fact, nothing more than a common thief.
Mr. Cecil Whiteley, for Farrow, asked the jury to say
that he honestly believed what he was doing was within
the law and in the interests of the shareholders. He had
had no birth or education, and had risen to a position of
eminence through his desire to found a half-way house
for people of small means who could not borrow money
from joint-stock companies and who often fell into the
hands of money-lenders.

“ The whole of Mr. Farrow’s life,” said Mr. Whiteley,
“has been devoted to protecting the poor classes from
the money-lenders. At the present moment all the money
he possesses in this world is exactly £100.”

The cross-examination of Farrow by the Attorney-
General revealed the astronomical figures which were
involved in the collapse of the bank. Expenses were
exceeding income year after year; in 1919 the expenses
were over £200,000 and the earnings were less than £80,000.
Up to the end of 1919 the total amount of writing up of
the investments of the bank was over £1,500,000.

Most of the time was spent in cross-examination by
the Attorney-General of the principal defendant, and
when, at the end of a fortnight, Curtis rose to speak for
Crotch, it was almost a foregone conclusion that the
verdict would be one of guilty. The s umming -up lasted
for nearly four hours, and Mr. Justice Greer used some

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IN THE FIRST FLIGHT

very plain words, and said that when they had found out
that there was only one way to keep alive this financial
child of Mr. Farrow, they had connived to keep on until
they were found out.

Farrow and Crotch were sentenced to penal servitude
for four years, and Farrow made a long speech to the
Judge in which remorse and self-pity were very evident:
“ I had no idea there could be found twelve of my fellow
countrymen who could unanimously say * Farrow is a
criminal.’ Thank God, I have six children who still
believe in the honour of their father, and who, although
I am going down, will bravely hold up their father’s
name with pride even to an unbelieving world.”

Crotch was less personal. “ I never intended to inflict
any, injury on the public,” he said. “ I had great dreams
in my life, as a young man, of public service, and now
my one desire is that you will give me the opportunity
of coming back soon to a decent and useful life as a good
citizen.”

Before the year 1922, the names of Curtis-Bennett and
Marshall-Hall were often being linked in comparison.
Their methods were very different, but Curtis was getting
some of the briefs that might have gone to Marshall,
and when it came to a question of deciding on a man
of the world for the representation of a client, many
solicitors chose Curtis. It was said of Marshall-Hall,
with some truth, that if you were a guilty man you could
do no better than brief that handsome, impressive giant
in the hope that when he came into Court he might pull
the case out of the fire by the sheer majesty of his presence
and his stubborn insistence on obtaining his own way.

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But if you were innocent and had a perfect case, Marshall-
Hall might choose to conduct the case in a certain manner,
fall out with opposing counsel and the Judge, create a
minor ^sofcne in Court, and find himself involved in a
side-issue upon which the jury might decide the case.

Curtis rarely quarrelled, and then only when sure of
his grounds—as for instance, in the Almeric Fitzroy case,
when his objections to the attitude of the magistrate
(Mr. Mead) were supported by the press of the whole
country, and his particular protest against Mr. Mead’s
handling of the case was vindicated in signal manner at
the appeal. Frequently enough he used to say that he
had been “ livid with anger—simply livid ! ” But when
doubt was expressed on the truth of this obvious over¬
statement, he would smile tolerantly, and qualify it by
saying that he had been “ a little disappointed.” He
knew that a jury favoured an even-tempered and confident
advocate, and he took every opportunity of showing them
that, of all the counsel asking for their consideration,
here was the man who knew the facts of the case, who
was most willing to help them with explanations, and
who seemed to have every detail of the case at his finger¬
tips. Curtis could adapt himself to any company; he
never made the mistake of over-estimating the int el li g ence
of a jury, but he could explain a point to them with
sympathy and perfect diplomacy.

He interrupted others with perfect timing and skill—
purely in order to reveal his intimate knowledge of the
facts for the benefit of the jury. For though he would
say that the jury system was the best in the world, and
believed that, in the main, Justice was served, he knew

ixa

IN THE FIRST FLIGHT

that when it came to the time for the twelve good men
and true to consider a nice point, they could not help
but be affected by the personality of the man who presented
the facts to them.

To illustrate the predicament of a client with a poor
counsel, he was fond of telling the story of the nervous
young barrister, who began:

“ M’Lord, in this case my unfortunate client, m ’Lord,
as I say . . . m’Lord, my unfortunate client ...”

“ Go on,” said the Judge. “ Go on. So far the Court
is with you . .

When he represented himself as knowing more about
the case than any man in court, he was often doing himself
no more than justice. He attached a great importance to
a “ view of the scene,” and, particularly when a policeman
was in the witness-box, he mentioned this. “ You’re
sure of that ? ” he would say to a witness. “ You’re
quite sure of that ? I’ve been there myself, you know . .
and often enough a police witness would try to strengthen
his own evidence by a slight exaggeration. Then Curtis
would pounce. “ If only the police would stick to the
facts, and tell only what they know to be true,” he said,
“ they would fare better in Court. Too often they try
to improve upon the facts.”

His consideration for the jury and his desire to help
them—as distinct from his wish to appear to them in a
favourable light—was also shown by the trouble he took
in explaining documents. Counsel often do not take the
trouble to refer to documents exhibited, as being points
which are not very material. But Curtis would take them
over to the jury and show them and after his explanation,

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would say: “ Now are you quite sure you understand
what they mean? Is there any point about them that I
can make more clear ? ” The jury appreciated such help,
and remembered their adviser when they came to consider
the verdict.

There were clients who thought that if they briefed
him, his appearance would draw attention to their case.
And in one instance recounted by Curtis it appears
that the proceedings would have ended earlier if it had
not been for his popularity with a jury. The Judge
intimated that he thought the jury might have heard
enough. Eleven of them agreed, but the twelfth wished
to hear the defence. Afterwards he was asked why.
“ Well,” he said, “ I admired Curtis-Bennett’s voice so
much when he cross-examined that I was anxious to hear
him making a speech to us.”

And indeed, among those who came to hear him from
the public gallery, there were many who were experts in
the art of speaking. He had quite a following from the
stage, knowing many famous actors in the Garrick Club.
Seymour Hicks was a regular attendant at big trials in
which he appeared, and admired his methods greatly.
Discussing the relative requirements of an actor and a
barrister, Curtis said that he wished he could have all
the advantages that are available on the stage. “After
all,” he said, “ an actor has an atmosphere favourable to
him. He has an audience that wants to hear him; he
has scenery, lights, every mechanical aid to make him
more acceptable to that favourable audience. In a Court
of Law, a barrister has to create his own atmosphere; he
must win over his audience without external aid; some-

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times I wonder whether it would not be a good thing if
I could have soft music while I make the speech for the
defence! ”

An actor said to him: “ The most difficult feature,
to me, would be that your part is not written for you.”
Curtis replied: “ That’s the only part of an actor’s job
I could not manage! I could not learn a part and speak
it.”

Curtis showed the truth of this when he went to the
House of Commons. He was worried because he had
written copious notes for his maiden speech and con¬
tinually had to refer to the manuscript. Whereas the half¬
page of notepaper with a few scribbled headings on it,
which he seldom looked at, gave him the chance of stand¬
ing free and unfettered in Court, his brain concentrated
on the chronological order of his argument, his hands
free for those few restrained gestures.

One attribute of his always pleased the solicitors. They
said that “he always knew who was paying his fees.”
There are counsel who will disdain to consult their clients,
and will have dealings only with the solicitor who instructs
them; Curtis would chat in Court with the most humble
and disreputable defendant who had caused him to be
briefed, and he came to Court always with a sincere con¬
fidence and a determination to do his best within the
limits of his powers for his client. He could not bring
himself to adopt a cynical attitude; the power of his
oratory was a mirror bf his own belief in his client; and
even after his faith in a client was rudely shaken, on an
occasion when he had reposed faith in his innocence to
an unusual degree, Curtis continued to “ take home with

IX 5

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him” his professional reliance on the innocence of the
men and women he so skilfully defended.

The case in which he had been so badly deceived was
that of a man charged with murder. Curtis felt very
strongly that he was a victim of circumstances, and could
not get out of his mind that a great wrong would be done
if he was not cleared of all guilt. He was able to obtain
an acquittal on the charge of murder, but his client received
ten years for manslaughter. Curtis resolved to do his
utmost to right the wrong. He determined to seek an
interview with the Home Secretary to see if something
could be done for the man, and had actually been arrang¬
ing a meeting when he returned to chambers and found
the solicitor on the telephone. Before Curtis could say
a word, the solicitor said: “ I’ve just been to see our
man in gaol. He’s very pleased indeed, and wishes me
to congratulate you on getting him off with only ten
years. He considers himself very lucky. . . .”

Curtis said to himself: ** Never again do I make up
my mind personally on a case! After this I’ll take a
case and do my best on the evidence. . . .” Needless
to say, he broke that resolution on the next occasion
when his client pleaded not guilty, and indignantly con¬
tested the evidence.

CHAPTER IX
The Greatest Years— i

C urtis-Bennett’s greatest year, a year of work that
was all in the public eye, was 1922, when he loomed
ever larger in the headlines and noted in his account
books an ever-increasing standard of fees to give solid
support to this flattering mirror of his career. Up to
date he had appeared in forty-eight murder trials, for
defence or prosecution. But few of them had been
notable, and he had not yet handled by himself one of
the startling cases that had put Marshall-Hall’s name at
the top and kept it there for many years. In these days
it is the fashion to say that there are no more “ great ”
murder trials; certainly there has never been a year of
such dramatic court-hearings as 1922; and in the records
of crime for the last twenty years, three of the cases in
which Curtis appeared that year will remain in the public
memory. Merely to mention the names conjures up all
their drama and tense excitement. They were the
Armstrong murder trial, the trial of Ronald True, and
the trial of Mrs. Thompson and Bywaters.

Curtis-Bennett’s knighthood came in the New Year
Honours. He welcomed it, since it would repay him
for the lost time caused by his work in the Secret Service.
■The official reason given was “ for work in the Criminal

”7

CURTIS

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Investigation Department,” but as a fact, he would have
welcomed the honour more two years before, when he
had been more nervous of the effect of his absence from
chambers. Now, he had no real need of this undoubted
fillip to a great reputation; but he was genuinely pleased,
and did not attempt to conceal his pleasure. For some
time he discussed whether he should be Sir Henry or
Sir Honywood, but decided to be known by the same
name as his father before him. He thus became one of
the few practising barristers who had been knighted
without reaching the rank of Law Officer. The only
other circumstances in which a practising barrister is likely
to be knighted is when he attains the rank of Senior
Counsel to the Treasury at the Central Criminal Court,
or for some signal service to the State.

As early as the second week of February, big briefs
came his way. The first was for Armstrong, accused of
the Hay murder, and the other was to defend Captain
and Mrs. Owen Peel, accused of inducing a village post¬
master to delay the dispatch of betting telegrams. The
case was known as the •“ Society Turf Sensation,” for
Captain Peel was well known on the Turf. It was heard
at Bow Street and the Old Bailey.

The Police Court proceedings were followed by a
fashionable society and racing crowd, and it was obvious
that the limelight would play brilliantly on the principals.
Briefly, the evidence for the prosecution was that Captain
and Mrs. Peel went to a village post office just before
a race at Kempton Park, and a telephone call came through
for Mrs. Peel. Captain Peel had a sheaf of forty-six
telegrams in his hand, ready to send off, involving a sum

118

THE GREATEST YEARS-1

of £368 as stakes. It was alleged that he waited until
after the telephone call had come through at 3 o’clock
before handing the telegrams to the postmaster, and then
suggested to this official that he should mark the time
received as 2.45 or 2.50. Both the accused denied these
allegations, but in spite of a strong plea by Sir Henry
to show that the prosecution had failed to establish a
prima facie they were committed for trial, bail being £1,000
each.

In his address, Curtis accused the Post Office officials
of behaving unfairly, and made a great deal of a point
he had established from the postmaster when he said
that he had only agreed to ante-time the telegrams because
he had had Captain Peel under observation the whole time.

Chief interest in the trial, however, was not on account
of the betting fraternity’s close attention, but because the
case brought up for review the whole question of whether
the wife was under the coercion of her husband. Sir
Charles Gill, K.C., who led for the prosecution, said it
was a somewhat quaint presumption that a man and his
wife were supposed to have but one will, but that all the
authorities corroborated that opinion.

Mr. Justice Darling seemed to agree with Sir Charles,
and although there was some lively discussion in the
Court at the beginning of the proceedings on this point,
Curtis took no part; at the end of the Judge’s long dis¬
sertation, outlining his final opinion, he stood up and
innocently remarked: “ Do I understand Your Lordship
to say that the indictment against Mrs. Peel must be
proceeded with ? ”

“ Certainly yes,” said the Judge. But he said that the

”9

defence could submit later that there -was no evidence
against the lady.

That day. Captain Peel pleaded “ Guilty,” and his
wife “ Not Guilty.” It was a curious situation. Curtis
reminded the court that Peel had pleaded guilty only to
ante-timing the telegrams, and not to the intent to defraud.
He resisted any suggestion that because Peel had repaid
some £2,000 which he had won that day it was a gesture
of guilt, but in regard to Mrs. Peel, he said that neither
she nor her husband knew the winner of the race when
they persuaded the grey-haired, rural postmaster and his
assistant to accept the eight telegrams which placed money
on the three o’clock race.

The law that Curtis applied as exonerating Mrs. Peel,
she being wife of Captain Peel, was that it was a pre¬
sumption of Law that the offence being committed in the
presence of her husband, she was under his coercion.
The law could be traced back to King Ina, of the West
Saxons, and King Canute. He did not mind whether it
was a good law or a bad law, but reminded the Judge
that it was the law.

“ The reason for that law has absolutely gone,” said
Mr. Justice Darling, “ but I am bound to follow it. The
doctrine of coercion is founded on the assumption that
a woman would never dare to contradict her husband.
It is absurd to say that the law is in accordance with
modem circumstances.”

Mrs. Peel was found not guilty and discharged. The
legal point taken was successful, and Mrs. Peel was not
called upon to put forward any defence she may have had
on the facts.

THE GREATEST YEARS-I

Curtis had shown the absurdity of the law as it stood.
And when the press rumbled and thundered on the theme
the next day, the judgment was also criticized as being
an illustration of one law for the rich and another for the
poor, sincea month before, a labourer had been sent to
prison with hard labour for a similar offence,.. The law,
which Sir Charles Darling had called “ a melancholy
doctrine,” was now called “ musty and antiquated, a fly¬
blown legal doctrine.”

The Judge, indeed, had gone out of his way to expose
the folly of the Act which Curtis had resurrected from
the dim past of wife-beating days, and had so determinedly
pressed on the Court as inviolate. Curtis had bound the
Court in what was the existing law, and, incidentally, had
assured that in the future no other defender could drag
King Ina’s law out of the musty records, for a Committee
of the House of Lords appointed by the Lord Chancellor
duly reported.

The Criminal Justice Act of 1925 enacts that on a
charge against a wife for an offence other than treason
or murder, it shall be a good defence to prove that the
offence was committed in the presence of or under the
coercion of the husband. The Act, therefore, abolished
the presumption that a woman was necessarily coerced.
It is for her to prove it. The Peel case was the last,
therefore, in which the doctrine was heard that a woman
was inevitably under the influence of her husband.) Not
without some opposition in the Lords; for Lord Buck-
master gave it as his firm belief that the bulk of women
acted under the husbands’ direction. But most people
agreed that the Bench must be rescued from being placed

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in such an awkward predicament as to be obliged to
follow a law that was classed as an archaic curiosity.

During the Peel case Sir Henry had had his first long
consultation with Mr. Thomas Matthews, Armstrong’s
solicitor in Hereford. The trial was to be held in the
Shire Hall, Hereford, on April 3, before the Judge who
had advertised the futility of the Law so startlingly in
the Peel case. Mr. Matthews found Curtis remarkably
diligent. “The bulk of the work in connection with
the case was done before he came to Hereford,” he states.
“ He must have practically lived in the case for some
weeks before the trial. Before receiving his brief he
wanted, week by week, the depositions and exhibits in
the case then before the Justices.”

Major H erbert Rouse Armstrong, a solicitor in the
old-fashioned and sleepy town of Hay, just over the
Welsh border, had been arrested on New Year’s Eve for
the murder of his wife, eleven months before. The crucial
facts presented by the prosecution at the police court
were that a will, made by Mrs. Armstrong in 1917 and
providing for her children, had been cancelled by a new
will in 1920, written in Armstrong’s writing, making no
provision for the children; that Armstrong had bought
several tins of arsenic; that she had died after losing
the use of her limbs and vomiting; and that Mrs. Arm¬
strong’s body, when exhumed, showed the presence of
arsenic.

Local gossip supplied many of the gaps. Armstrong
had been first charged with the attempted murder of
M*- M artin, a fellow solicitor, who had fallen ill after
having tea with Armstrong: later he was charged with

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THE GREATEST YEARS—X

the murder of his wife. After the illness of the solicitor
it was the local doctor’s recollections of the circumstances
of Mrs. Armstrong’s death that caused the exhumation.

As usual, Curtis first studied the depositions, reading
them through. Then he picked holes in the police case,
running a red or blue pencil along the margin as he judged
whether the point might be made favourable or not to
the prisoner. He did not see Armstrong until just before
the trial, and on Sunday morning, April 2, the day after
the ’Varsity boat race, he set out for Hereford in his
open Rolls, a muffled figure driving the hundred-odd
miles with the anticipation of the week’s work ahead.
He had his programme and his plan of campaign in his
mind; he was taking matters quietly.

Even so it was something of a shock when he first
encountered the urbane confidence of the meek, spectacled
solicitor who insisted on his wartime title of “ Major,”
and who had bombarded a frightened solicitor with invita¬
tions to tea, day after day, until he accepted.

Curtis walked with Mr. Matthews into the Assize Court.
As Armstrong was shown into the room, he walked over
to Curtis, his hand outstretched, a pleasant, conversational
opening on his lips, as if the only matter in which he
was interested was a race on the Thames at Putney.

“ Were you at Oxford or Cambridge, Sir Henry ? ”

“ Cambridge.”

“They won the boat race and we will win this case. . . .”

For the prosecution appeared the Attorney-General,
Sir.jrrnest Pollock, K.C., M.P., later Lord Hanworth,
Master of the Rolls; Mr. C. F. Vachell, K.C., and Mr.
St. John Micklethwait. For the defence. Sir Henry

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Cuftis-Bennett, K.C., Mr. S. R. C. Bosanquet, and Mr.

E. A. Godson.

During the first day’s hearing Sir Henry made his vital’,
submission against the admissibility of evidence tending to'
show that Armstrong had administered arsenic to Martin.j’
This was to be the ground of his great battle in the Court
of Criminal Appeal—a battle which many legal authorities
believed that Curtis had virtually won, though the
Judges were against him. Briefly and simply his point
was that until the prosecution had shown that Armstrong
had been concerned in an act which led to the conclusion
that he had murdered his wife,, it was inadmissible to
give evidence that he had at a later date been concerned
with an attempt to murder another human being. It was
wrong, he held, to suggest “ system ” before it was proved
that he had in fact administered arsenic—quite apart from
the fact that the alleged “ system ” occurred at a later
date than the alleged murder. The defence being: “ I
did not do it,” that evidence was irrelevant to the present
charge. It was clear to Curtis that if that evidence were
admitted, it would certainly weigh the scales down on
the side of guilt.

Mr. Justice Darling—who from that date was much
attracted to Curtis, and told him that he regretted that he
was not a Member of his own Inn as he would have been
able to welcome him as a Bencher—ruled against him.
Curtis knew that he had lost the first—and the most vital
—round in the Armstrong battle.

When the Court adjourned, a huge crowd had gathered
outside the building in a snow storm. In the Court itself,
women who had obtained seats after long hours of waiting

124

THE GREATEST YEARS—X

in the cold now produced packets of sandwiches and their
knitting, chatting gaily of the sensations of this engrossing
spectacle. The town was full of newspaper representatives
and photographers, and during the trial every witness and
official faced a barrage of clicking shutters as he left the
Court, while many cameramen contrived to take photos
of the Court in actual session, much to the anger of the
Judge when he saw them in print.

During the first week Curtis suggested to Mr. Matthews
that they should visit the grave of Mrs. Armstrong. They
went one cold afternoon when the snow was thick on
the ground, and Curtis was fortunate in having chosen
a moment when he was not pursued by newspaper-men.
Mr. Matthews stayed in the car while Curtis wandered
over to the snow-covered grave; he returned in a few
moments white and shaken; and only to a few intimate
members of his family did he tell what had happened
while he stood in the snow at the graveside.

When he went there, he could see no sign of a living
thing. The graveyard was empty and silent. But as he
approached and stood near to the grave, he was suddenly
confronted by a mongrel do g. • The animal stood on the
mound of Mrs. Armstrong’s grave and snarled; Curtis,
who knew and loved animals, saw that the animal would
prove dangerous if he moved any closer; h is hack les
were up and he appeared to be really savage; Curtis
made a gesture of friendliness, but the mongrel bared his
teeth. Curtis knew that he was making much out of
an incident, but it stcuck him as peculiar that he, the
defender of the man accused of murdering the woman
whose body lay in that grave, should be forcibly kept

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away. He said nothing to any man at the time; but
he asked in the town if the dog had been seen before
in the graveyard, and was told that every other visitor
had approached the grave without trouble. Nobody knew
of such a dog; if Curtis had imagined for a moment,
in his over-wrought state of mind, that the animal was
the property of Mrs. Armstrong, he soon verified that
the dead woman had never kept a dog. The mystery
remained; he kept the incident to himself until long
afterwards.

The case for the prosecution occupied the entire week.

Curtis decided to stay in Hereford over the week-end,
since the threat of snow was still in the air, and he did
not relish the prospect of a long journey. But the Sunday
morning was bright and cheerful, and he knew how he
could best prepare himself for the stiff work ahead after
six days in the over-crowded Court. At nine o’clock on
Sunday morning, therefore, the leading counsel for the
defence could be seen in his immaculate great-coat, smoking
an enormous cigar, and preparing for a day’s drive. He
spent the entire day with a friend in the country, and
drove back blit hely at the stroke of midnight to his hotel,
the only man hardy enough to withstand the intense cold
in an open car.

The next day he spoke for four hours without a note.
There was the usual half-page of notepaper on the desk
with a few lines scribbled that morning ; he never looked
at them. The speech in full was some 20,000 words,
sufficient to cover three entire pages of The Times.

The speech, which he always quoted later as the best
he had ever made, began with a typical phrase: “ At last

126

THE GREATEST TEARS-1

I have an opportunity of addressing the tribunal which
is trying Major Armstrong for his life. . . He exuded
confidence and well-being, but he used a phrase that he
often used in private conversations : “I have often won¬
dered, and I have never wondered more than during the
last three days, whether anybody realizes the terrible
anxiety and responsibility which rests upon the shoulders
of a member of the Bar when he is defending a man for
his life. . . .”

Forty-eight times he had already appeared for men or
women charged with murder; the agony of the responsi¬
bility was still with him, and always would be.

The case that Curtis had to meet seemed almost insuper¬
able. It was a courageous man indeed who, in face of
the evidence which had been given, could think, as Curtis
thought, that Armstrong stood a reasonable chance of
being acquitted. But as he went through that four-hours
speech it was seen that he was destroying one by one the
arguments put forward by the prosecution and setting up
other arguments in their place. He supplied a reasonable
answer to every point made in the case for the Crown.
On general grounds, he said, there was a certain atmosphere
of suspicion prevailing now they had a man in the dock
charged with murder. “ Every normal act seems in some
extraordinary way to be made to assume a sinister aspect,”
he said. “ Where there was no suspicion, there now is
suspicion.” His main defence was that on the evidence
it was much more reasonable to assume that Mrs. Arm¬
strong, a woman who had been certified insane and who
had been declared to be suicidally inclined, had tak en
arsenic herself than that Armstrong had administered it

12 ?

CURTIS

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to her. On this point Curtis recalled that she had been
given arsenic every day in medicine during her month’s
stay in the nursing home. Curtis, therefore, promised
to produce evidence that additional doses would have at
least retarded her progress towards recovery, as indeed
had happened.

I He turned then to his second most important point.
It was a Gilbertian situation, he said, when they had to
consider the evidence concerning the alleged attempt to
poison Martin, not with a view to finding a verdict on
it, nor to express a view upon it, but for the purpose
of throwing some light on whether or not Armstrong
had already murdered his wife. “ Even if there was
arsenic in Mr. Martin,” he said, “you have got to be
satisfied that Armstrong put it there, and then you are
not trying Armstrong for attempting to poison Martin.
It is only put in as evidence to help you to decide
whether Armstrong had in fact poisoned his wife months
before.”

A further attack was made on the evidence regarding
the attempted poisoning of Martin. The date of the
attempt was said to be October 26, when Martin had
gone to tea with Armstrong and had been ill after dinner
that night. Curtis said he would show that it was far
more likely that his illness was due to something he had
eaten during dinner.

Another ninepin he knocked down was the prosecution’s
point regarding the alleged^ motive. It had been said
that the motive was money. After her death, however,
Armstrong had not spent a penny of the money his wife
had left, and had made no attempt to do so until he needed

128

HERBERT ROUSE ARMSTRONG JEAN PIERRE VAQUIER

THE GREATEST YEARS — I

money for his own defence—when an embargo was put
upon it.

There was another curious point in regard to the search
made by the police for small packets of arsenic. One
packet was apparently missing, but when Mr. Matthews
had made a search he had found it caught up at the back
of the drawer. Armstrong had always said he bought
white a rsenic from the local chemist named Davies. The
police had been unable to find a packet of white arsenic
with this name on it. Curtis, however, produced with
triumph the bureau and the packet, and Mr. Matthews
in the witness-box duly testified that Armstrong had been
right.

One by one, then, Curtis took hold of the various
arguments ranged against the prisoner to make an appar¬
ently clear case, and destroyed their value. “ There
is not_ a scrap) of evidence that Major Armstrong did
administer arsenic, and why should you assume that he
did ? ” he asked. “ All the evidence is that he was the
devoted husband doing everything he could for the wife
who was sick and who suffered, unfortunately from
delusions. . •. . Once a man is in the dock then every¬
thing he does becomes a guilty act. . . . Let a m a n sit
in the dock charged with murder and his normal actions
become suspicious and held up to sco rn. ”

Armstrong was in the box for the rest of that day and
half the next day. He stood up to the cross-examination
of the Attorney-General well. But when Sir Ernest
Pollock had sat down, and after Armstrong was re¬
examined, there came probably the most dramatic incident
in the whole of that amazing case. For twenty minutes

129 K

of so Mr. Justice Darling, in his quiet, level voice, put
to him question after question. He put them slowly
one after the other, and they and their answers were
very damaging to the defence. Sir JHenry said he felt
that they were like the words of Destiny. He well knew
how much harm they had done his case at a time when
he thought his client had come through more or less
unscathed.

After calling the rest of the evidence for the defence.
Sir Henry began his closing speech on the ninth day of
the trial. He apologized for the length of his former
address and he promised to be more brief; he congratu¬
lated the jury on their attention, and after the first few
moments, he rejoiced to find himself presented with a
perfect opportunity for impressing the jury. (The Judge,
at the conclusion of his opening speech, had cautioned
the jury not to discuss the case between themselves.
Curtis said: “I must say I regret that that caution was
not given at the end of the Attorney-General’s op ening
for the prosecution; for, if it was a good exhortation at
all, it was an exhortation which ought to have existed
through a trial which has such nice issues as this trial
has.” •

Mr. Justice Darling apologized. “I say at once that
I regret I had not given the exhortation sooner,” he
said. “It is advice that I ought to have given the jury
before, but I gave it the first moment it came into my
min d.”

Curtis hoped the Judge would not mind him saying
what he had said. The Judge said : “ Not in the least.”
Curtis went on with a new gesture of confidence, and

130

THE GREATEST TEARS—I

was almost intimate with the jury, inviting them to share
with him his gratitude to Mr. Matthews and “ a number
of loyal helpers.” “ Do not imagine that I am not grateful
to those who have assisted me,” he told them. The
address lasted forty minutes, and though throughout he
had been quietly advising the jury to look at the facts
from a new point of view, he ended with something that
was more like a stirrin g pe roration than was usually to be
found in his closing speeches. “ The time is very near,” he
said, “ when you will troop out of this Court to consider
your verdict, a verdict which, when you have determined
upon it and say ‘ Guilty ’ or c Not guilty,’ will be read
by people who merely take interest in sensations, and
pass on to the next sensation. But for the friends of
Major Armstrong, it means, I hope, his freedom; for
his children the restoration of their father to his home;
and for Major Armstrong it means life.”

The jury retired a few minutes after five o’clock, after
a summing-up of more than an hour. Sir Henry had
seemed confident enough. He knew that in Hereford
they were betting five to one against a conviction, and
he said to a newspaper reporter : “ I have been in forty-
eight murder trials, for and against, and I have never
known the verdict so open.” Mr. Matthews had been
impressed with his cheerfulness throughout the case. As
usual, Curtis did not wait to hear the verdict. He could
seldom bring himself to bear it. And now he walked
along the road out of Hereford in the cold afternoon, and
at six o’clock reached a village, and looked into the village
post office. The woman behind the counter said her
husband was in Hereford, and was going to telephone

131

CURTIS

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her as soon as the verdict was made public. Curtis had
only a few moments to wait before the telephone bell rang.
The jury had said : “ Guilty.”

He walked back with a heavy heart, and the next night
when he reached London, he could not take his mind off
the case. When he saw his family, he repeated the salient
points of his defence as if he was still pleading before a
jury for Armstrong’s life.

“ I shall never do a case like that again,” he said. “ I
know that I have never done a case better and never
will do. It was unjust—a poor show.”

One incident connected with the case shocked Sir Henry.
A London paper printed an interview with a juryman,
in which there was said to be revealed the proceedings
of the jury while they considered their verdict. Curtis
later mentioned the matter at the Appeal Court, throwing
doubts on whether the story was true, and receiving the
agreement of the Appeal Judges that it was a shocking
case of abuse of privilege. He did not suggest that the
story was true, but heard also another and possibly more
accurate version of what happened. Briefly, the story
ran as follows: One of the jurymen had recently been
involved in a civil action before Mr. Justice D arling ,
and had lost his case. He bore some resentment ag ains t
the Judge because of this, and in a strange and irresponsible
spirit of pique imagined that one way in which he could
show his defiance of the Judge was to resist the implica¬
tions in his charge. When the jury retired, the foreman,
who knew of this man’s hostility to the Judge, passed
round slips of paper to each member, suggesting that
each should write down, without signature, his own

132

THE GREATEST YEARS—X

verdict. When he came to read the folded slips of paper,
eleven of them read “ Guilty.” The twelfth read : “ Not
proven.” The foreman immediately looked at the juryman
who nursed a grievance against Sir Charles Darling.

The juryman readily admitted that he was the author.
“ You know about that ‘ Not proven,’ ” he said. “ But
all the same, I think he did it.”

With which he at once agreed to come into line with
the others and find Armstrong guilty, having shown to
his own satisfaction his ability to resist the direction of
the Judge he disliked.

Curtis tried to take his mind off the great Armstrong
trial with a motor tour in Devonshire. Notice of appeal
had already been given, and he would have an oppor¬
tunity of commenting on certain omissions in the charge
to the jury, that he thought unfair.

But, before the appeal, on April 20, Curtis received
the brief for yet another case that was to shake England.
On March 6 the police had found the dead body of a
pretty young woman, battered and strangled in her Fulham
basement flat. That night they arrested, in a box at the
Hammersmith Palace of Varieties, a young ex-flying officer
who had spent the night with her. His name was Ronald
True.

The accusation that it was his hand that had killed
Olive Young could not strongly be resisted, though Curtis,
on his first examination of the case, hoped to be able to
put forward that there was a doubt. But there was very
obviously a far stronger defence. True was irresponsible,
a dope-addict, insane. The defence was that True did
not know the difference between right and wrong when,

133

CURTIS

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>)

having been admitted with some reluctance to the girl’s
room for the night of March j, he had woken in the
morning, fetched her a cup of tea, and struck her on
the head four times with a rolling-pin. She was dying,
but True thrust a towel deep in her throat, wound the
girdle of her dressing-gown tightly round her neck, and
strangled her. He dragged the corpse into the bathroom,
leaving it lying on the floor. He then rifled her handbag,
but curiously enough, did not make his escape, but waited
until some time after the girl’s maid had come, at nine
o’clock.

“ Don’t disturb Miss Young,” said True. “ She is
asleep, and I’ll send the car round at mid-day.”

He bought clothes at a shop where he was well known,
to replace those stained with the blood of his victim.
He was affable as always, explained the stains by saying
he had been in an aeroplane accident, and even showed
the jewellery he had stolen, saying he had picked up the
trinkets in France. He pawned the jewellery that morn¬
ing, deposited the blood-stained clothes, bought a paper
in which he read the screaming headlines of the “ Fulham
Murder,” and threw it aside with the remark : “ Nothing
in the paper.”

Sane or insane? On May i, before Mr. Justice Mc-
Cardie, Sir Henry stood up at the Old Bailey to tell his
client’s strange life-story. He knew that the prosecution
was in a terrible difficulty. In cases when a strong defence
of insanity is to be pleaded, the prosecution can call evi¬
dence to the contrary. The obvious witness, therefore,
is the prison doctor. Dr. East and Dr. Young, the two
doctors of Brixton Prison, however, were of the opinion

134

THE GREATEST YEARS — I

that True was, at any rate medically, insane. They agreed
with the eminent mental specialists called by Curtis. The
prosecution, therefore, consulted another medical man,
Dr. Cole, who gave a guarded opinion that True was
sane. Dr. Cole, however, was not emphatic enough to
be a good witness for the prosecution; Sir Richard Muir,
prosecuting, knew that Sir Henry would elicit from the
witness grave doubts, and nullify his evidence. The
alternative was to present no evidence that True was
sane, and expect the deadly comment that the prosecution
had been unable to produce a witness who would testify
to his sanity.

The prosecution, therefore, was relying on a legal
precedent, the “ Rules in McNaughton’s Case ” of the.
date 1843, in which certain questions relating to the law
of insanity are answered. Sir Henry had to fight against
the application of those “ Rules.” He knew that though
he had the evidence regarding True’s mental state on his
side, he must obtain a direction from the judge to extend
the legal doctrines of insanity to embrace the evidence
for the defence.

During the first two days Sir Henry, in cross-examina¬
tion, built up an atmosphere round Ronald True. Wit¬
nesses described how True had told remarkable stories of
his experience all over the world; how he had suggested
starting a Murderers’ Club, members of which would
commit murder for “ a bob a nob ”—a shilling each.
He was leading the jury to look at this good-looking,
neurotic young man as a creature tortured by his imagina¬
tion; he established that when True had bought new
clothes, he himself had indicated the blood-stains; that

I 35

CURTIS

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when he had bought a paper he had first asked for the
Sporting Times.

Towards the end of the second day the case for the
prosecution was ended. Sir Henry was direct in his
opening address. He would call the prison doctors who
would say that True was insane; he would call two other
specialists who would say the same, and he would show
that from infancy, Ronald True was abnormal.

True’s aunt said that as a child he tortured rabbits,
burying them with their heads above the ground, so
tha t they died of starvation, while he watched them. He
ill-treated a favourite pony; when he grew up, he took
drugs. Another witness said he was a braggart, and'
that when he was on the Gold Coast he was irresponsible
and “ hobnobbed with the blacks.” The Brixton doctors
duly gave their opinion that he was insane. They were
cross-examined at length, but Sir Henry was satisfied,
and when towards the close of the fourth day, he asked
for a direction from the judge, he put forward very
strongly his opinions^of the McNaughton Rules, which,
he said, were no longer in line with medical knowledge.
Now Curtis showed the deep study that he had made
of his subject. He produced many other authorities to
support his own condemnation of the McNaughton Rules,
and in asking for the question for the jury to be put in a
particular form, suggested it should be: “ Was True
deprived of the power of controlling his actions ? ”

This debate on the form of the question to be put to
the jury lasted over an hour that day, and again on the
fifth day Sir Henry was quoting other cases for an hour
before beginning his closing speech for the defence. He

136

THE GREATEST YEARS — I

assumed that the jury would conclude that it was True’s
hand which killed Olive Young. That admission was
contained in one phrase, and he passed to the main point
immediately. He spoke for a few minutes only; was
there ever such a case in which abnormality had been so
clearly shown ? People had come forward from all parts
of the country to testify to True’s drug-taking and his
eccentricity.

“ I am sure,” he concluded, “ that the jury will not
allow a human being to be made a pawn in a great legal
game. . . .”

It was the shortest speech for the defence he had ever
made in a murder trial. But he was confident that the
doctor’s evidence could not be ignored, and he had already
made his great effort when he had debated with the judge
on the form of the question to be put to the jury. He
was confident and assured. And indeed, he made only
a passing reference to the fact that the prosecution had
not produced medical evidence to rebut his strong—
seemingly invincible—proof that True was a maniac with
homicidal tendencies.

Sir Richard Muir was equally brief, but when Mr. Justice
McCardie was well embarked upon a lengthy summing-
up, Sir Henry’s heart sank within him; the Judge was
giving no suggestion to the jury that True was insane,
and was in fact, making it clear that they must decide
on the question as to whether True’s delusions and peculiar
character did in fact cause him to have no knowledge of
what he was doing when he struck Olive Young—not
once, but four times. “ All the doctors say that the
prisoner did know what he was doing at the time,” said

*37 '

the' Judge. “ And i£ you ask yourselves what was the
nature of the crime, you may well say, how is it possible
to t hink that he could not be aware of it ? . . . You
will probably feel that the prisoner did know at the time
the physical nature and quality of the acts he had per¬
petrated.”

T his was the death sentence, Curtis knew. He was
surprised that the jury were out for an hour and a half.

CHAPTER X
The Greatest Years —z

F or the next ten days he switched his mind from the
True appeal, already lodged, and grappled again with
the Armstrong appeal. He again contested the admissi¬
bility of evidence regarding Armstrong’s alleged attempt
to poison the solicitor, Mr. Martin, and attributed to Mr.
Justice Darling a mis-direction of the jury. He made con¬
siderable capital out of the curious incident of the missing
packet of arsenic found by Mr. Matthews, and said that
the Judge had represented this to the jury as a point against
the prisoner, whereas he submitted that, if put in the proper
light, it would be in his favour. He was biting in his
irony: “ If a man is accused of murdering his wife,” he
said, “ and there is poison in the house, if he does not go
into the room, people say he is keeping away to divert
suspicion, and if he does go in, then that in itself is put
against him.”

His main point, however, was regarding the admissibility
of the Martin evidence. It was on this point that he had
made a complete survey of murder cases over the last
seventy years, quoting precedent after precedent to support
his claim; he went to Australian, Canadian and American
Law for his instances, and received the admiration of all
who followed him for his forceful battle. He had thought

139

that he would be in the Court of Criminal Appeal for one
da7. He had made other arrangements. But there were
so many questions from the Appeal Judges, and their
opinions were expressed at such length, first on one side
and then on the other, that the hearing lasted over four
days. It is worth noting that though his argument has
had so many supporters, the decision of their Lordships
in the Armstrong appeal stands to-day as good law.

The appeal failed, and despair fell once again upon the
man who had promised himself, some years before, that
never again would he take a case too much to heart. He
could not get Armstrong out of his mind and determined
that, if possible, the case should be taken to the House of
Lords. For such a course the fiat of the Attorney-General
is required, and it must be shown that the final appeal is
being made “ on a legal point of public importance.”
Curtis thought that he could fulfil that proviso, and made
his application to Sir Ernest Pollock. And although he
did not question the good faith of Sir Ernest in this matter,
he did feel that it was unfortunate that his application must
be considered by the very man who had been Counsel for
the Prosecution.

Permission was refused. Armstrong must be hanged. ■

Then, and not till then, could the public be told facts
which were known to every newspaper. It was said Arm¬
strong was afflicted with a poisoning mania. Curtis himself
had the opinion that a poisoner, after his first vic tim has
died, must repeat his crime; Curtis knew that the Home
Office had considered exhuming the bodies of three other
local people, and were ready to authorize the exhumation
of the bodies. Reporters during the trial spent every night

140

THE GREATEST YEARS-2

waiting at the churchyard for police officers to begin dig¬
ging. But it seemed moderately certain that Armstrong
would be convicted on the evidence of the exhumation of
his wife’s body.

But on the facts presented, Sir Henry believed that his
client was wrongly convicted. More than in any of his
other cases, he felt that he had not deserved to fail. “ A
poor show . . .” he said.

The phrase concealed a crushing despair. Before Arm¬
strong was hanged, on May 31, Curtis was again in the
True case. But reminders kept coming to him of that
meek, somewhat sinister country solicitor whom he could
not help liking. From the gaol there came a note of
gratitude, and with it a diamond tie-pin “ as a memento of
the trial.” Mr. Matthews, at the public auction of Arm¬
strong’s goods, bought for him, against fierce competition,
a medicine chest which had figured largely in the trial and
had been exhibited in Court. And years afterwards, Curtis
used to visit Hereford, where he would discuss again the
great trial which had been such an outstanding defence,
and his best.

On May 25, Sir Henry appealed for True. Were the
jury to disregard the evidence of doctors ? The McNaugh-
ton Rules were old-fashioned, and had been suspended with
the advance of medical knowledge. The appeal was dis¬
missed, but meanwhile Mr. Justice McCardie, as was his
duty, had drawn the attention of the Home Secretary to
the medical evidence. Three eminent medical men were
appointed to examine True, and found him an undoubted
lunatic. He was reprieved. This perfectly ordinary sequel
>f events drove the press to fury. It was recalled that, a

141

CURTIS

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month before, one Henry Jacoby had been hanged, in spite
of a jury’s recommendation to mercy, for the murder of a
knight’s widow: “ Trial by Harley Street,” it was called,
and in the House of Commons the Government was plied
with questions. Even the legal profession resented the
over-riding authority of three doctors over Judge, jury,
and Court of Criminal Appeal.

Actually, of course, the sequence of events had only been
in accordance with Common Law, and the Home Secretary,
Mr. Shortt, read the House a lecture on the subject and
reminded the country of this fact. Lord Birkenhead
appointed a committee to report on the insanity laws, but
their recommendations brought the code no closer to
modem medical opinion, and the McNaughton Rules still
stand, the reason being that before insanity can become
a defence to crime it must be taken to extreme limits, and
above all, must be proved by the defence. But Curtis,
though he had himself failed to save Ronald True from
the gallows, knew that justice had been served by his life-
detention in Broadmoor. True was undoubtedly mad.
A letter from gaol, written before he knew he was saved,
read as follows : “ Cheerio, old nut! And if you come
to the place I’m going to, I’ll have a nice cup of cold water
ready for your arrival.”

Even in the “ roaring twenties,” of which strange excit¬
able decade Ronald True was a distorted victim, that letter
is eloquent of a callous irresponsibility that was first shown
when he watched his pet rabbits starve to death, and was
shown again when he belaboured a naked girl with
savage blows and rammed a towel down her throat—for
a few pounds of ready money.

142

THE GREATEST YEARS—2

In September Curtis went abroad for a fortnight. It was
his custom to travel to Boulogne and stay the night. But
for some reason he arrived in London on Friday, Septem¬
ber 29. The fact that he had cut short his tour by a week¬
end resulted in one of his successes in an appeal case. For
at half-past nine that Friday evening, two police constables
in Hyde Park began to follow a tall, soldierly figure in a
trilby hat and evening dress whom they suspected of annoy¬
ing women. They thought they saw him talk to three
women in the course of several minutes, and when he was
sitting on a park bench, they approached him and told him
he would be arrested for annoying persons using the Park.
The man repudiated the charge with anger, and, it was said,
used violence on the police, who took him to the police
station. He then gave his name as Sir Almeric Fitzroy,
Clerk to the Privy Council.

That night his solicitors telephoned Curtis-Bennett and
asked him to appear for Sir Almeric at Marlborough
Street Police Court the next morning. There would be
time for a consultation first; and the brief was marked
“ J° aQ d z” The magistrate waited until the end of his
Hst before hearing the charge, and, the defendant plead¬
ing not guilty, he was remanded until the following
Saturday.. In the interval, Curtis-Bennett had several
consultations and a view of the scene of the alleged
offences. h

But in the meantime, while he was putting all his
energies into the examination of that case, there occurred,
on the Tuesday following Sir Almeric’s arrest, a drama
that is destined to live in the annals of crime in England for
many years to come. Frederick Bywaters had struck the

143

blow that was to bring himself and his mistress to the
scaffold.

The Thompson-Bywaters murder trial has been related
in print so frequently that it is necessary only to give the
new viewpoint on the case revealed by Sir Henry’s case¬
books. He was briefed by F. A. Stern on October 6,
the day before he appeared in the Fitzroy police-court
proceedings. He first met Mrs. Thompson during that
month, and was immediately impressed by her personality
and by the changing sides of her character.

Once he had heard the case for the Crown, both he and
Mr. Walter Frampton, his junior in the case, formed the
view that if Mrs. Thompson acted on their advice she would
not go into the witness-box, their view being that, though
the letters were strong evidence against her without explana¬
tion, it would be fatal to submit her to cross-examination.

“ In my view,” Curtis said, “ the best line to take would
be, that while there may be sufficient prima facie evidence
against you, there would not be sufficient for any jury to
convict you. I take it that the physical action of the
stabbing by Bywaters will be admitted; the only possible
connection that can be made between yourself and the
actual committing of the crime is any interpretation that
may be put on the letters found in Bywaters’s possession;
but, on the other hand, I hope to obtain a refusal of their
admittance as evidence, on the ground that until the prosecu¬
tion can show that you took some active part in the murder
—if it was murder—then they are inadmissible.”

To Sir Henry’s great surprise, Mrs. Thompson said:
“ I wish to give evidence.”

Sir Henry realized that Mrs. Thompson had no inkling

144

THE GREATEST YEARS- 2

of the danger in which she stood. She was content to have
the letters read—this being perhaps yet another aspect of
her remarkable love of the limelight. Her wish to give
evidence—indeed her insistence on entering the box—may
have been another indication of this anxiety for notoriety.
But Sir Henry pressed her—pleaded with her—to change
her attitude.

“ My most earnest wish,” he said to her, “ is that you
should take the advice of those who know legal procedure.
I cannot put it too strongly that there is a risk, a risk that
you yourself cannot appreciate, in your submitting yourself
to cross-examination on these letters, if they are admitted.
I am keeping in mind the possibility of the Judge remarking
adversely on the fact that you do not go into the box; I
have that ever in mind; but I wish to put to you, as
strongly as I am able, my opinion that on the evidence
produced by the prosecution no comment made by the
Judge in this matter will be as dangerous as if you submit
yourself to cross-examination.”

It was apparent to all students of the barrister’s art that
his advice would have been opposed to his client’s under¬
going cross-examination, and himself submitting to the
jury that the evidence produced was not sufficient to warrant
a conviction. Indeed, every legal authority who has dis¬
cussed the case has emphasized that Sir Henry’s advice was
sound. Mr. Filson Young even suggested that Sir Henry
should have returned the brief when he was faced with
the adamant attitude of Mrs. Thompson. “ I should have
asked her to brief another counsel,” said Mr. Young, in
his introduction to the Famous Trials report of the hearing.
“ An experienced lawyer could have foretold, and must

145 l

have known, the very great difficulty that the prosecution
would have in getting a conviction against Mrs. Thompson
if she herself did not give evidence. . .

Sir Henry was grieved at the suggestion that he should
have thrown up the case. “ I never considered—nor
would I be entitled to consider—taking such a step,” he
said; “ but being convinced that such a course would have
prejudiced her case, and being also assured in my own min d
that Mrs. Thompson would not have altered her attitude
if I had done so, I came to the conclusion that I had done
my best with her. If the letters were admitted, as I feared
they might be, then I had ample evidence of the imagination
of my client, of the way in which she allowed herself to be
swayed by fantasy, and I could truthfully represent her—
and prove my contention—that she was a woman who had
but to read of a character which she admired or in which
she was interested, to straightway surround herself with
the environment of that character.”

There was almost a scene when Mrs. Thompson refused
to accept the advice of her counsel. Sir Henry still
tried persuasion, but without the slightest effect. He
realized that she felt herself in no danger; she thought
she could save Bywaters by giving her explanation of the
meaning of those letters, though, since the defence of
Bywaters was not a denial that he had struck the blow
but that he had struck fearing an attack from Mr. Thomp¬
son, it was difficult to see how the explanation of the letters
could help her lover, save by making it clear that the
murder was not long premeditated.

There was another difficulty presented by Mrs. Thomp¬
son’s explanation of the letters, if the letters were admitted

146

THE GREATEST YEARS—2

as evidence. Certain passages might well be quoted by
the prosecution as evidence that the woman had put into
the mind of her 19-year-old lover the thought of murder.
There was a perfectly simple explanation. Mrs. Thompson,
infatuated, as she was, with Bywaters, and being terrified
of losing his love, and fearful lest he should turn his atten¬
tions to another, perhaps unmarried, and therefore less
complicated source, thought that she could best retain
his love by pretending that she would go to any leng th,
even to that of destroying her husband’s life, for love of
him. Could Sir Henry persuade the Jury to accept that
explanation ? Could he make the Jury realize that they
were dealing with no ordinary woman?

This also, Curtis-Bennett put to that handsome, self-
possessed woman who discussed with him the smallest
details of that love story which was soon to become public
property. Still she refused to renounce her intention of
going into the box. Was it vanity and a love of the
limelight that influenced her? Curtis-Bennett was able
to show that she revelled in the dramatic, that she
exaggerated every incident to reveal its drama, that she
was not above writing fiction as the sober truth. Her
solicitor, Mr. F. A. Stern, lent his influence to that of Sir
Henry and Mr. Frampton, pleading with her to realize the
danger in which she stood; she would have none of it.

The letters themselves, which were read with avidity
throughout England, were remarkable. They revealed, as
Sir Henry put it, a woman who lived a commonplace life
of hard work, for which she was amply paid, who was part
and parcel of a workaday world, and who yet had a secret
life of her own. Highly imaginative, romantic, almost

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visionary, she poured forth her soul to that young man and
set him afire. When, half-way to the other end of the earth
on his ship as clerk he tired of her image and suggested
half-heartedly that in future they might only be friends, she
revived his love with more ardent promises and protesta¬
tions. She told Bywaters of occasions when she was
approached by other men, suggesting to him that she was
a superlatively desirable creature who had difficulty in resist¬
ing the blandishments of others, but who favoured him
only because of her love for him. Sir Henry knew that
the verdict lay in those letters, and he studied them intently,
arriving at an opinion of the writer that made him fervent
in his appeal for her life. Edith Thompson never knew
that her life was at stake; indeed. Sir Henry considered
that she regarded his efforts on her behalf as a mere form¬
ality. . . .

He was always angry when this love between Edith
Thompson and Frederick Bywaters was referred to in
Court as a tawdry passion. The Judge, indeed, used the
words “ insensate silly affection,” and “ silly, but at the
same time wicked affection.” Sir Henry regarded Edith
Thompson’s love for Bywaters as a great and sincere passion,
a love capable of sacrifice and suffering. He thought the
letters contained passages of real beauty, and said : “ I wish
I could write love letters like that.” In this opinion he is
supported by Mr. Filson Young, who writes : “To find
their match you would have to look in the letters of people
far above her in poetic and literary attainments.”

Mr. Justice Shearman, in his charge to the jury, quoted
the following passage written by Mrs. Thompson about
her husband: “ He has the right by law to all that you

148

THE GREATEST YEARS —1

have the tight to by nature and love,” and said of it, “ If
that nonsense means anything, it means that the love of
a husband by his wife means nothing because marriage is
acknowledged by law. I have no doubt that the jury and
every proper-minded person is filled with disgust by such
expressions.” Again, in the Court of C riminal Appeal,
the Lord Chief Justice referred to the trial as " this essenti¬
ally commonplace and unedifying case.” Though it was
not his duty to stress his opinion in his speech for the
defence. Sir Henry held diametrically opposite views, and
it was the fact that this great and sincere love had been
portrayed in such slighting terms in Court that caused him
to say emphatically, long after the trial was over : “ Mrs.
Thompson was hanged for immorality. . .

So much for the preliminary work that Curtis-Bennett
expended on the remarkable case of Edith Thompson. She
was committed for trial with Bywaters on November 3,
but in the meantime Curtis had had his name and his photo¬
graph under staring headlines in every newspaper in the
country over the sensational Fitzroy conviction and success¬
ful appeal. On October 7, the Saturday following his first
appearance in Court, Sir Almeric again appeared before Mr.
Mead at Marlborough Street, with Mr. Herbert Muskett
prosecuting, and Sir Richard Muir as junior to Curtis-
Bennett for the defence. Most of the hearing was taken
by Sir Henry’s probing questions to the police constable
on the matter of the time factor, and when there appeared
before him the woman, Mrs. Dorothy Turner, who was
alleged to have been annoyed by Sir Almeric, he confessed
that he was not yet in a position to cross-examine her
very fully, and only asked questions about her movements

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during that evening. Mrs. Turner said she had an appoint¬
ment, but preferred not to write down the time or the name
of the gentleman she was to meet. “ There are posts,” said
Sir Henry. “ You have not heard from him since ? ”
Mrs. Turner admitted that the gentleman had not corres¬
ponded with her at all.

Mr. Mead heard the case again the following Saturday,
remarking that it must be completed during that day. And,
during the first hour, it certainly seemed as if Sir Henry
needed no further adjournment to wreck completely the
case for the prosecution. For now it was learned why Sir
Henry had confessed that he was not ready to cross-examine
Mrs. Turner the preceding Saturday. She had proclaimed
herself a lonely widow in receipt of a pension, employed
at two Brighton hotels. During the intervening week
Sir Henry had checked this description. First, he asked
her once more to give the name of the man she was going
to meet that night. Again she refused, though she said
she had a letter from him. When was she married, what
was the name of her husband, when did he die, and where
were they married ? Mrs. Turner told him, with some
hesitation.

Then, without warning, he changed his line of question¬
ing. She said she had been employed at two Brighton
hotels; the last of them being the Queen’s ? Yes.—She
had not smiled at Sir Almeric ? No.—She had been living
in Kennington ? Yes.—Alone ? Yes.

“ Be careful,” said Sir Henry. “ I suggest that you are
living there in two rooms, a bed-sitting-room with a double
bed in it, and a kitchen, with a man who goes by the name
of Turner ? ”

150

THE GREATEST TEARS—2

“No.”

“ I think it is fair to remind you that you are on oath.
Did you not take this room for yourself and your husband ?
That will give you a chance to tell the truth about it. Did
you ? ”

“No.”

“ I have the landlady here,” said Sir Henry wearily, and
a woman entered the Court. Mrs. Turner collapsed in a
faint, and when she had recovered. Sir Henry continued
relentlessly.

“ I put it to you, to give you an opportunity of with¬
drawing now, while there is yet time, the answer you gave
when you said you were not living there with a mm who
gives the name of Turner, right up to this morning ? ”

Mrs. Turner was silent. And it was at this period that
Mr. Mead suggested that she need be troubled no further.

“ To save time,” said Mr. Mead to Mr. Muskett, “ have
you any further corroboration of the police evidence ? ”

It seemed that after the destruction of the evidence of the
chief witness, Sir Almeric would soon walk from the Court
with his honour vindicated.

When, therefore, further evidence was taken for the
prosecution, and Mr. Mead intervened during his cross-
examination, Sir Henry could not prevent himself from
showing his impatience by a gesture. “ It is hardly worth
while being so petulant,” said the magistrate. “ I am not
being petulant at all,” retorted Curtis, and when Mr. Mead
later interrupted his speech for the defence, he protested
strongly at the “ attitude being taken here.”

I did think, he said, “ that when I was stopped in my
cross-examination, that you had made up your mind that

Hi

CURTIS

this charge was an ill-founded one, and could not be sub¬
stantiated, otherwise I suggest I ought to have been allowed
to continue my cross-examination. ... I had much more
to cross-examine her upon, and one never knows whether
the woman would not have realized that truth is'the best
thing to tell. . . .”

His address on opening the case for the defendant was
scathing in its irony and its revelation of what the police
had not done to verify their evidence. He pointed out that
in most cases of similar character, the woman who could
be chief witness would not give evidence. " Thank good¬
ness,” he said, “ We have the woman here. . . .”

He told how he and Sir Richard Muir had been to Hyde
Park the night before, and suggested that it was impair hie
for the police officers to see what they .professe d.-J^ ^^'
seen. He suggested that a tribunal should inqi^ ga1f( ^ y
evidence, and averred that the whole police sto. e ’ was ?r : *ot'
hold water. ^

Sir Almeric and Lady Fitzroy were both called, and gave
a reasonable version of their actions that night. Yet, in
the first few words of his decision, Mr. Mead announced that
he would find Sir Almeric guilty, and imposed a fine of £5
and £10 10 s. costs. “ One must not make too much of this
matter,” he said. “ It was a mild offence . . . the evidence
of the constables had not been prejudiced at all by the
evidence of Mrs. Turner, and he could not disregard the
police statements.”

“ It is quite obvious you don’t appreciate what the
defendant’s evidence is,” said Sir Henry; and indeed. Sir
Henry and Sir Almeric were astonished at the decision.
For some considerable time magistrate and counsel argued,

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THE GREATEST TEARS—2

Sir Henry saying that after his cross-examination of Mrs.
Turner had been stopped, he was of the opinion that Mr.
Mead had made up his mind in favour of an acquittal.

“ I regret the misunderstanding, but I am not responsible
for it.”

But if Mr. Mead considered that “ too much must not
be made of this matter,” the press of the whole country in
the days following evidently disagreed. The newspapers
saw a “ peril to everyone ” in the conviction, and said the
whole country was astounded by the action of Mr. Mead,
“ whose decisions during the past year or so have attracted
widespread attention.” It was recalled that Mr. Mead had
fined an Archdeacon, Chaplain to the King, in the pre¬
ceding year and had seen the sentence quashed on appeal;
a hawker, sentenced to imprisonment for a trivial offence,
had been released by the Home Secretary.

“ This magistrate is now in his seventy-sixth year,” said
the Daily Express, and a correspondent asked : “ What are
we to do to be safe in the Park ? Wear blinkers, a gag and
a gas-mask ? Is the Park open for the public pleasure or is
it a happy hunting-ground for the police ? ”

“ If Mr. Mead be allowed to regulate our lives it will be
dangerous to ask permission to lift a bag on a railway ra ck, ”
said another. Arnold Bennett wrote : “ When immorality
decreases in Hyde Park, the reason is not the ardour of the
police but the coldness of the weather.”

“ Mea d must go ! ” was the chorus taken up in the press,
and not a few cartoonists drew him with cruel lines of
senility, Strube in the Daily Express picturing “ The Free¬
dom of the Parks,” with men and women shepherded along
different paths by the police, barbed-wire entanglements to

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keep the sexes apart, and police making arrests for omissions
to wear blinkers. “ Freddie ” Mead, as he is affectionately
known to all who know him, did not “ go.” Years later
he retired from the Bench which he had adorned since
1889, an aged man, but in full vigour of mind and spirit.
The Court at which he sat for many years, Marlborough
Street, is, by reason of the district within its jurisdiction,
apt to be visited more frequently than other police courts,
by people of note, and any mistakes which a magistrate
may make there attract more publicity, and therefore more
blame, from the Public Press than when they take place
elsewhere.

“ It is an outrage! ” wrote James Douglas in the Sunday
Express. “ The villain in a melodrama always wears even¬
ing dress and has a name like Almeric Fitzroy 1 ” And the
Pink ’Un reported that the latest cry from the nursery
was : “ Don’t go into Hyde Park, Daddy 1 ”

It was generally admitted that Hyde Park was immoral,
but there is little danger in saying that had Sir Almeric not
succeeded in his appeal a storm would have arisen through¬
out the country that would have eclipsed his preliminary
“ acquittal ” by newspapers. Long years before, when
Curtis was first briefed in a “ H yde P ark Case,” he said that
he had been advised by his father never to cross the Park
at night. As the Park Regulations were read by Sir Ed ward
Marshall-Hall for.the respondent at the Appeal Court, it_did
ap pear that Sir Alm eric had been guilty of a technical offence
i n sp e aking to a woman, but the whole country demanded
that a common-sense view should be taken of such cases,
and that a man who was actually walking to meet his wife
by appointment should not be convicted.

H4

THE GREATEST YEARS-2

Sir Almeric’s character was vindicated on November io
by Sir Robert Wallace at London Sessions. The evidence
of the constables, that Sir Almeric had spoken to a woman,
was not in dispute, but it was Sir Henry’s challenging
phrases regarding Mr. Mead’s stopping of the cross-
examination of Mrs. Turner that gained Sir Almeric a
proportion of the costs. These amounted to some £500
—a record for a hearing that had taken only three days in all.

It was an unusual step for the magistrates to take, and Sir
Robert Wallace himself expressed doubts as to whether it
was in order. But Sir Henry had flung one criticism after
another at the manner in which the whole case had been
conducted. Why had not the police checked the evidence
of their witnesses ? he asked. Why had it been necessary
for Sir Almeric to spend a large sum of money in proving
facts that the police could easily have done ? Why had
they not verified Mrs. Turner’s statements ? If they had
gone to her lodgings and put one question to her, they
would have found out beforehand the value of her evidence.
If they had telephoned the Admiralty, they would have
discovered that she was lying about her pension. What
would have happened to a poor man who was charged with
such an offence ? Her evidence would have been accepted.

Once more the press thundered its denunciations of Mr.
Mead. James Douglas wrote: “ Let us all combine to
put and keep the police, the magistrates and the Home
Office in their proper place.”

Four days later, while the press still raged, Curtis-Bennett
was briefed at short notice to represent an elderly doctor,
who, in the words of the Judge, “ passed through the fires
of hell ” through tittle-tattle and the pesterings of the news-

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papers. He had been called in to give an anaesthetic to a
rich widow in Chiswick. The widow died soon after¬
wards, and two months later her body was exhumed for
an examination by Home Office experts. At her funeral,
suggestions had been made by relatives that it was curious
that the doctor had been the only medical man in attend¬
ance, and one of the dead woman’s relatives wrote to him
making certain suggestions. From every newspaper
placard in London the doctor was faced by phrases recalling
the tragedy to his mind. Distracted with grief and
harassed by publicity, he went to the Russell Hotel, wrote
a letter to his wife and one to the Coroner, and took
sulphonal. He was on the point of death when they found
him. And then there began the ordeal of an inquest and
a trial for attempted suicide that were considerably less
painful to him than the “ trial by gossip ” that had already
convicted him.

The exhumation had been ordered after receipt of anony¬
mous letters, and when it was revealed that the doctor
benefited to the extent of some ,£13,000 under the will of
the widow. In his first letter of explanation to the Coroner
he referred to this fact. “ I can be shown to be interested
in the death,” he wrote, “ but was more interested in the
patient’s life, for it is known to others as well as myself
that the lady was on the point of making a new will, leaving
out certain legacies of the present will, and thus to my
advantage.”

The resumed inquest lasted only a few hours, and Curtis
saw that the Coroner was likely to advise the jury that there
was no evidence that the doctor was in any way to blame.
He therefore said little, and after only fifteen minutes’

156

THE GREATEST TEARS—2

absence the jury duly declared that death had been due to
misadventure, and completely exonerated the doctor.
Two days later he appeared at the Old Bailey on the charge
of attempted suicide, once more to be vindicated by Sir
Ernest Wild, the Recorder, who went out of his way to
refer to the “ vulgar tittle-tattle ” in the case, ending with
the words : “ You have come through Hell unsullied and
nobler.”

There was no denial of the attempt to commit suicide, but
Sir Henry dwelt at some length on the “ inevitable ” publi¬
city attending the exhumation. “ The result was that this
gendeman found he was being pointed at as a probable
murderer; there was not one scrap of evidence that he had
done anything improper. ” Sir Henry read out the doctor’s
pathetic farewell letter to his wife. “ My love,” he wrote,
“ has been in increasing rado, and was never so fond as
now.”

The sentence was a curious one. “ I will not say your
character has been re-established, it has been doubly estab¬
lished. But I have to consider the offence against society,”
said the Recorder. “ The sentence I pass on you is four
days’ imprisonment, which means that you will be imme¬
diately released.”

*57

CHAPTER XI
The Greatest Years—3

T hroughout these days of hard work, Sir Henry had
on his mind the great case that was pending. During
another full week, he was engaged at the Hertford Assizes,
and, as December began, refused briefs so that he could
concentrate for the Old Bailey trial of Mrs. Thompson
on Wednesday the 6th. Edith Thompson was still adamant,
there was no hint that she would allow herself to be guided
by the advice of her counsel. The two months she had
spent in prison had not influenced her determination, and
long before the first day’s hearing, Curtis knew that he
had one of the most difficult defences of his career. He
feared the worst; yet he could never succeed in instilling
in the mind of that determined woman a fraction of his own
concern. He could only hope to prevent the letters being
admitted in evidence.

On the first of those five gruelling days, Curtis-Bennett’s
greatest struggle was to attempt the refusal of the letters
as evidence. As was expected, the application for a separ¬
ate trial was refused, and Curtis suggested strongly that
the letters should not be admitted until the prosecution
had shown that Mrs. Thompson was present when the
fatal blow was struck, and further, proved some act show¬
ing she was party to the crime. He quoted the Armstrong

158

THE GREATEST YEARS-3

case to strengthen his point, but, as he feared, Mr. Justice
Shearman would have none of it. The first point was
against Mrs. Thompson. Curtis knew, at the end of that
first day, that already she stood appreciably nearer to the
gallows.

He knew that he could safely rely on the wide experience
of Mr. Walter Frampton for the examination of Mrs.
Thompson, and not until the fourth day of the trial, did he
re-examine. There was little to do save clear up some of
the matters that had sounded so ominous when detailed
by the prosecution. An example of his methods, and a
very typical one, was his patient correction of a hostile
impression caused by the reading of extracts from one
of her letters to Bywaters. She had been reading Bella
Donna, and it was suggested that her interest in the book
was due to the similarity of Hichens’s characters with
her own domestic triangle. To the Solicitor-General
she had acknowledged that the woman in the story
planned to poison her husband in order to go to another
man.

Curtis destroyed the appearance of similarity with a few
questions. Was the husband in the book wealthy ? Yes.
Was the lover a wealthy man ? Yes. Was Mr. Thomp¬
son wealthy ? No. Was Bywaters wealthy ? No. Did
she in fact support herself? Yes.

The only two witnesses called for the defence were the
sister and mother of Mrs. Thompson. Curtis co nfine d
himself only to questions of fact that he wished to emphasize
in his closing speech.

And then: “ That is the case for Mrs. Thompson.”

How earnestly he wished that he could have said that

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earlier. If Curtis had had his way, he would have rail e d
no evidence. He dared not have submitted that there was
no case to go to the jury, for the Judge would certainly
have over-ruled his submission. But, in the absence of
her testimony, he could have said that the actual evidence
of her behaviour after the crime supported the theory thpt
she knew nothing about Bywaters’s intention.

To the day of his death Curtis insisted that he could have
saved that woman. But there it was ; he must fight for
the life of a creature who did not know herself to be in
danger. He must fight with her weapons—the second-
best weapons—rather than his own. The ground had been
taken away from under his feet.

It was Saturday morning, and in his pocket were tickets
for the Rugby Trial Match at Twickenham that afternoon.
There was some question whether Mr. Cecil Whiteley would
finish his closing speech for Bywaters that morning in time
for Curtis to begin his speech for Mrs. Thompson. In
any case, he welcomed the delay until Monday for the
conclusion of his speech, and would have been unwilling
to leave the verdict in the mind of the jury over the week¬
end. He believed that his eloquence would be more
powerful in effect if his voice still rang in their ears as
they deliberated. And although the prosecution must
have the last word, he treasured the slender hope that his
words would linger in their minds.

He spoke for only half an hour—a condensed and un¬
emotional attack on the theory of the prosecution. He
“supposed” the case was founded on nothing but the
letters, and outside that, on nothing but guesswork. He
asked the jury if they did not consider Edith Thompson

160

BYWATERS, EDITH THOMPSON, HER HUSBAND

THE GREATEST YEARS—3

to be one of the most extraordinary personalities they had
ever met. He built up her character for them; the
imaginative, fanciful woman living in a world of make-
believe. He was leading them to look at Edith Thompson
in a new light, so that they could bring themselves to believe
that when she put pen to paper it was to record thoughts
and suggestions that had no relation to her everyday life.
“ Have you ever read more beautiful language of love ? ”
he asked. “ Such things have seldom been put upon
paper. This is the woman yo’~' e to deal with, not some
ordinary woman. . . .”

There were some typic- .lples of his style in the
address. He had begun w t familiar, “ At last I have
an opportunity of putting its. Thompson’s case to
you ...” He said: “You'are men of the world, and
happily your body includes a member of the other sex, so
that you will be able to discuss the matter from both
points of view. ...”

That morning’s speech ended on a low note dealing with
the facts. But when Mr. Justice Shearman gave the
indication that the Court would adjourn, he was crushed
by the Judge’s last words of admonition.

“ This was certainly a great love,” Curtis had said.

“ You should not forget that you are trying a vulgar
and common crime,” said the Judge.

From that moment Curtis knew that he had the Judge
against him. He had lost most of the ground gained that
morning.

Twickenham that day had lost its old appeal. The agony
that he always felt was with him, but he showed no sign
of the strain that wore him down during every murder trial.

161 m

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And on the Monday morning he stood up fresh and con¬
fident, to make a speech of only half an hour, but which
stands to-day as a classic combination of straightforward
appeal and cold simple logic.

He had many of Edith Thompson’s letters to read, and
it was a difficult task. But he had the voice for it. “ Dar-
lingest lover of mine, thank you, thank you, oh thank you
a thousand times for Friday—it was lovely—it’s always
lovely to go out with you. And then Saturday—yes I did
feel happy—I don’t think a teeny bit about anything in the
world, except being with you . . Difficult to invest
those repetitions with feeling and sincerity in the cold
atmosphere of a Court of law. . . .

He made heavy play with a theory of the prosecution
that one of Edith Thompson’s letters referred to her
husband, whereas he had been able to prove that she was
writing about a bronze monkey. “ Does not that show
the danger of guesswork ? ” he asked. “ There is not
one reference in the letters which anyone in this Court dare
say shows that the suggestion made by the prosecution is
true.”

Then he ended: “I am loath to leave this discussion
because I am anxious to feel and know that I have dealt
with the whole case as it is put against Mrs. Thompson.
I know I have risked your displeasure in taking up your
time at such length, but you do not grudge a few hours
one way or the other spent on something which means
eternity. Of course, I cannot see what is in your minds,
because I cannot tell whether the matters I have been
discussing are matters that you don’t want to discuss
because you have made up your minds. But in asking

162

THE GREATEST YEARS—J

this question I know one thing; I shall get your answer,
and the answer to the question I have put is that Mrs.
Thompson is not guilty.”

There was no peroration, no elaborate turn of a phrase
that might haunt a jury; he wished only to exude a con¬
fidence which he did not really feel; which he had not felt
the Judge’s bitter valediction two days before.

The Solicitor-General had finished his closing speech
some time before the luncheon adjournment, and Mr.
Justice Shearman had had time once more to destroy the
idea of the “ great love ” in the jury’s minds. “ We have
heard flights of fancy in this case,” he said, and emphasized
again that it was no extraordinary charge, that the circum¬
stances were ordinary. He criticized Curtis-Bennett for
remarking that he “ thanked God that the jury had to decide
and he had not. ” “ If that remark was intended to frighten
you, I hope it will not,” said the Judge. “ Let us get rid
of all this atmosphere. You are told that this is a case
of a ‘ great love.’ If that means anything, it means that
the love of a woman for her lover, illicit and clandestine,
is something great and noble. I am certain that you, like
any other right-minded person, will be filled with disgust
at such a notion. ...”

The Judge proceeded to destroy outright the glamorous
aura that had been woven round the love-story of Edith
Thompson and Frederick Bywaters—much to the dis¬
advantage of Curtis-Bennett’s case. “ She was involved
in a continual practice of deceit—the letters only breathe
this insensate silly affection . . . they are the outpourings
of a silly and at the same time wicked affection. . . .”

Sir Henry’s client sat in the dock unmoved. But when

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he left the court, with the retirement of the jury at half-past
three, to wait in an ante-room of the Old Bailey, unable to
bring himself to hear the verdict, Curtis feared the worst.
Before six o’clock his fears were confirmed. That night,
as he walked home, the evening newspapers blazed the
news of Mrs. Thompson’s sentence. A cigar-merchant, an
old friend of his, looked out of his shop and saw a familiar
figure approaching. Curtis walked with his hands behind
his back, deep in thought. “ But how different he looked
from the fine erect figure I knew! ” writes the cigar-seller.
“ He was walking along slowly with his head bent down,
umbrella under his arm. I opened the door of my business
and greeted him : ‘ Good-evening, Sir Henry.’ Almost
in a whisper came his reply : ‘ Good evening, Mellor. I
am very, very tired. . . .’”

Ten days later he appealed on the grounds that th e Judge
misdirected the jury, and that the community of purpose
between Edith Thompson and her lover had not been
shown, up to the moment of the crime. The appeal met
with failure.

Curtis had in his mind a curious, illuminating remark
Edith Thompson had made to her mother.

“ How could you write those letters ? ” the latter asked.

“ Nobody knows what kind of letters he wrote to me,”
was the reply.

Among the many fallacies that found publicity after the
failure of the appeal, none made Curtis so angry as one
theory suggesting that the reprieve of True had made the
Home Office determined to refuse mercy because of the
castigation of the press. The fact was that Bywaters could
not be reprieved. The reprieve of Mrs. Thompson would

164

THE GREATEST YEARS-3

have caused another storm, for public opinion, led by the
press, had hardened in favour of a condemnation of the
woman and forgiveness of the youth because he was a weak
and often unwilling slave of her stronger will. (Was it
not proved, said Curtis, that she had posed to him as a
woman capable of doing anything—even murder—to keep
his love ? She had to: Bywaters wanted to get away
from her.)

There was no reason why Bywaters should not be
hanged; could the woman be hanged, and not the man ?
Again, another section of public opinion would have been
outraged, and it was absurd to suggest that the convicted
instigator and not the actual murderer should pay the
extreme penalty. But many put forward this theory; the
Law is that if there is incitement to murder over a long
period, then the instigator may be responsible for the con¬
sequences of that incitement and can be charged with the
murder. If Mr. Thompson had walked home from the
theatre alone that night, and met his death at the hands of
Bywaters, would the letters found in his possession have
convicted Edith Thompson on a charge of murder that she
had not even witnessed?

Bywaters and Edith Thompson, whom Curtis had called
great lovers, and whom the Judge had dismissed as paltry
deceivers, never saw each other again, but died at the same
moment on January 9. But for years afterwards, indeed
until the last years of his life, Curtis claimed that Edith
Thompson, the woman who would not save herself, “ paid
the extreme penalty for immorality.” He said to Mr.
Stanley Bishop, the journalist: “ I know—I am con¬
vinced—that Mrs. Thompson would be alive to-day if she

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had taken my advice. She spoiled het chances by her
evidence and demeanour. I had a perfect answer to every¬
thing, which I am sure would have won an acquittal if she
had not been a witness. She was a vain woman and an
obstinate one. She had an idea that she could carry the
jury. Also she realized the enormous public interest, and
decided to play up to it by entering the witness-box. Her
imagination was highly developed, but it failed to show
her the mistake she was making. I could have saved
her. . . .”

The biggest case in which Sir Henry was concerned in
1923 was the Fahmy shooting tragedy at the Savoy Hotel.
It will be remembered that, during a sensational storm that
broke over London on the night of July 9/10 a porter
in the hotel heard three pistol-shots fired in quick
succession. Prince Fahmy Bey, the rich, son of a rich
Egyptian engineer, was found shot. His wife, a fascinating
and sophisticated Parisian lady named Marguerite Forente,
was in the room with a pistol in her hand and in a state
of great excitement. She was alleged to have said in
French: “ I have pulled the trigger three times.”

After her arrest she sought the advice of Mr. Freke Palmer,
who immediately retained the services of Sir Henry and Mr.
Roland Oliver. At the desire of Madame Fahmy and her
friends Mr. Freke Palmer later retained Sir Edward Marshall-
Hall to lead for the defence.

The trial, which began on September 10 at the Old Bailey,
was one of the sensations of the year. Marshall-Hall was
at his brilliant best. The defence, which was successful,
was that the pistol had accidentally gone off as Madame
Fahmy did not know it was in a condition to be fired. She

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THE GREATEST TEARS—3

was in possession of the pistol at that moment because she
was defending herself against an attack by her husband.

After the acquittal, when Sir Henry and Lady Curtis-
Bennett were driving to Boreham, a woman stepped out
behind an omnibus. Sir Henry cleverly avoided her, but
she was wearing rubber shoes and the road being wet she
slipped against the car and suffered a severe injury to her
head from striking the rear part of the car. She died shortly
afterwards.

As one would expect from a driver of his experience and
skill, he was absolved from all blame at the subsequent
inquest. But his relief and pleasure at the acquittal of
Madame Fahmy was rudely shattered by this tragedy and by
his sorrow for the relatives of the unfortunate woman.

16 7

CHAPTER XII
True Stories

S ir Henry’s life was a series of contrasts. He switched
apparently easily from farce to tragedy, from personal
grief to the role of public jester. And it was in conformity
with this rule that the jest that was most often on his lips,
and in the speeches of others, was in actual fact his own
most serious handicap; the doctors had given him warning.

His father had been of slim build to the end of his days.
When Curtis was a young man, in training for the cycling
track, he had shown few signs of putting on weight.
Before the War he increased in weight, then took it off
as a result of the change in diet during the War. But after
the War he found himself adding a stone every year. He
was always agile and brisk in his movements, and he wore
his immaculate clothes well, but he could not ignore the
warnings of his heart. He was already caught in the vicious
circle of weak-hearted men who are fat; hi s.corp ulence
added to the strain on the heart, and the weak heart pre-
vented him taking exercise to reduce his girth. He liked
to be called the Falstaff of the Bar, but he knew that those
who chaffed him did not realize they were joking of his
nemesis.

There was only one attitude for Curtis to take. He
capitalized his generous proportions. In time, he used

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TRUE STORIES

every well-known story of fat people—always' with the
solemn assurance that the hero was himself—and was re¬
duced in his latter years to recounting true stories. The
last story he ever told was of his own weight, and was true.
But before that time came, when he was telling true stories
to every banquet audience, he had become the principal
figure of every incident told of every fat man at the Bar,
and of a great many others, witty and wise, foolish and
trivial, that have ever been invented by a world that looks
kindly on a Colossus in their midst.

“Let me have men about me that are fat
Sleek-headed men and such as sleep o’ nights.”

Curtis thought that Caesar’s was the average opinion of
the world, and he was right. And he judged that the only
fat men who cannot be abided are those who pretend they
are thin. Henceforth, Curtis would never let a Judge, a
jury, a public meeting, or a dinner audience forget that he
was the Triton among the minnows of the Bar. Judges
fed him with cues for a joke on it; his learned friends gave
him opportunities that he never missed; witnesses un¬
consciously gave him slender, unintentional hints, on which
he hung the fact of his weight with a mental agility that was
in direct contrast to the ponderousness of which he joked.

Perhaps the earliest legal witticism on the subject of fat
which Sir Henry inherited by natural right was that which
concerns the question of a Judge to a barrister: “ Do you
move ? ” The classic reply, from the gargantuan barrister,
is: “ With difficulty, m’Lord.” The story had been told"
as originating from Sir Henry. Probably he would have
said it if it had not been a hoary jest in legal circles since

CURTIS

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the 20-stone Mr. Murphy said it. Or, it may be that Mr.
Danckwerts first offered this extremely obvious riposte for
a man of immense proportions. But since the story was
told of Curtis in his obituary notices, there is no knowing
whether Murphy and Danckwerts had not also inherited
the response. Curtis, at any rate, never claimed it as his
own. He had to find new stories of fat men, and to give
utterance to them as they occurred.

Certainly, some of his stories were old, but little known,
but he told them because they were good, and they sounded
well as told by a fat man about himself after a good dinner .
His favourite story went that he had recently been to the
seaside and, stopping on the pier to inspect a penny-in-the-
slot weighing machine, had wondered what this particular
sample of a notoriously fanciful breed might show his
weight to be. As he put the penny in, he noticed that two
urchins stood behind him, entranced at the prospect of see¬
ing what the portly gentleman with the cigar might weigh.
The needle swung round wildly, and settled at 6 stone xo.
Sir Henry, knowing the vagaries of these machines, was
unsurprised. But there was a voice from behind him of
awe and wonder.

“ Coo, ’e must be ’oiler! ”

Another version of the same story told by Curtis was
that he and his son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter,
tried their varying weights upon a pier weighing-machine.
This, however, was one of those new-fan gled machines
which announce the weight by means of a gramophone
record. The machine duly announced “ 3 st. 5 lbs.” for
Susan Curtis-Bennett; “ 8 st. x lb.” it announced for
Margot Curtis-Bennett. Sir Henry put another penny into

170

TRUE STORIES

the ma chin e and stood on the step : “ One at a time please,
one at a time,” came a stentorian voice. . . .

Shortly after Bottomley’s release from prison, Curtis
was lunching at Romano’s in the Strand when he saw
Horatio at another table. When he finished lunch he went
over and greeted him, saying how well he looked.

Horatio looked him up and down solemnly for a moment
or two : “ Yes—it saved my life,” he said. “ And it looks
as if three years wouldn’t do you much harm. ...”

In Court he took every opportunity of referring to his
weight. When he and Mr. Walter Frampton were in a
case together, there was always sure to be a muster of
members of the Bar and spectators, for both were of a
similar build, and each was likely to draw a laugh from
the Court at his own expense. Owing to the number of
counsel present on one occasion, there was real difficulty
for both of them, and Sir Henry remarked that they dare
not turn to face each other “ in case we cannoned off the
cush.”

When Curtis had a smaller colleague at his side or behind
him, he seldom failed to draw attention to the difference in
their figures. Once, a very slim colleague was sitting
behind him, and the Judge asked: “Is there no one on
the other side. Sir Henry ? ”

“Yes, m’Lord,” said Curtis—in the very voice and
intonation of the vast Murphy whom he had succeeded as
the Fjlstaff of the Bar. “Yes, m’Lord. My learned
friend is obscured by my body. Not that I offer any
apology for my size, m’Lord, because I sometimes make
a good impression upon juries by virtue of it, as well as
by my forensic eloquence.”

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Apart from the jest, this was by no means untrue. There
was a good deal of truth behind the remark of a Judge to
Sir Henry when he told him—quite inaccurately—that he
was losing weight. “ When you lose half your weight,
Curtis, you will lose half your practice. ...” Clients
seemed to like a weighty, well-dressed confident advocate.

In licensing cases particularly, a jest about his girth
immediately changed the atmosphere of the Court, and
Curtis had the Bench friendly to him. When he appeared
there was sure to be a full muster of J.P.s, most of them
sure of a day’s enjoyment when they saw Curtis was there.
Accommodation was not always adequate for the big muster
of barristers and solicitors. Often enough, the courts were
stuffy and overcrowded ; and when comment was made on
the discomfort, Curtis never failed to take his chance.
When the Chairman of the Bench once remarked on the
lack of ventilation, he said : “ Yes, I quite agree it is very
hot, but I am hoping that you will not be; long in deciding
in favour of my application, and then there will be very
much more breathing-space in the Court.”

There were times when he actually had to move the
furniture in rural Courts, to give himself room to move
when he stood up. Curtis always helped to rearrange the
furniture himself, making the best of the occasion and
ensuring the friendship o f every mjjiQtjCourt offic ial. He
made it appear that he was proud of being the heaviest man
at the Bar; and never, even to his most intimate friends,
did he reveal the fact that he knew his weight was shortening
his life.

One of his great friends, for whom he had a sincere
admiration, was Mr. George M cClure, now Senior Treasury

TRUE STORIES

Counsel, who often appeared with him as his junior, and
provided a complete contrast in physical stature. Curtis
and McClure once appeared in a case concerning atubercular
cow.

“ What I want to know,” said the magistrate, “ is how
tubercular cows can be recognized. How is one to tell
whether a cow is tubercular or not ? ”

“ So far as I can make out,” said Curtis, “ a normal cow
is built somewhat on my lines, whereas a tubercular cow is
built on the lines of my friend Mr. McClure! ”

But his humour was not confined to this personal subject.
His brain leapt to the ridiculous and the grotesque, and it
could be seen that he could no more restrain himself than
he could reduce his weight. In a case in which there was
an allegation of appropriation of money from the servants’
box “For the Unseen Staff” at'an hotel, Curtis kept the
Court on a level of joviality that must have been unique.
Throughout the case he was in a mood when he could not
help commenting on the appearance of witnesses. The
“ Unseen ” staff appeared to give evidence—a raggle-taggle
crowd of nondescripts, all shapes and sizes. It took some
time for these witnesses to give their evidence, and before
they had finished, Curtis leant over to the jury to make a
small point and began: “ Members of the jury, we are
still in the Presence of the Unseen ...”

Country justices of the peace were not proof against his
whispered comments. "Mien an old and bearded pa triar ch
appeared from the door at the back of the bench, and
the Court rose to do him honour, Curtis convulsed
his fellow-counsel with a remark that might easily
have been heard by the old man. “ It appears that Santa

*73

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9 9

Claus has decided to pay us an early visit this year,” he
said.

The manner of his replying to questions, in a solemn
voice -without the vestige of a smile, lent piquancy to his wit.

His wit was never directed against ignorant witnesses
who appeared in Court suffering from nervous strain. He
was especially tolerant of their mistakes, and would never
take advantage of an obviously shaky witness who was
uncomfortable in the unfamiliar surroundings. As Chair¬
man of the Essex Sessions, he had many opportunities of
showing this kindliness in a practical way. One old
country couple were once charged with “harbouring
thieves.” They had no legal aid, and were baffled and
over-awed by the atmosphere of the Court, so that the
prosecution seemed certain to secure a conviction. Sir
Henry saw that this would be a travesty of justice and from
the Chair subjected the prosecution to a searching cross-
examination. The result was an acquittal. He had shown
his own broad and elastic view of the meaning of the word
Justice.

Many times he sent money to poor people who had come
under the notice of the Law, and they never forgot him.
But there were times when his friendliness with all and
sundry had some strange sequels. In a murder case Jbe was
rather surprised to obtain a. verdict of acquitt al, the jury
having been sent back several times after declaring that they
could not agree. Curtis knew that he had one or two of
them on his side, but he was amazed when they seemed to
have been able to sway all their colleagues. Years later,
he defended a client whose face he seemed to remember.
The man said: “ I know you will do your best for me,

174

TRUE STORIES

Sit Henry. I did you a jolly good turn in that-murder

trial. I told the jury I wouldn’t agree if I sat there all
night, and in the end I won the whole lot over and got
you a verdict of c Not guilty.’ ”

His generosity was also extended to colleagues and clerks.
On the death of Mr. Allen Laurie, one of Sir Henry’s oldest
friends, he noticed at the Quarter Sessions, where this friend
had been deputy-Chairman, that Mr. Laurie’s clerk stood
in the background. Sir Henry wondered whether he would
have another position. He found one for him within a
week. The letters of gratitude he received from men for
whom he had found a post formed an appreciable part of
his mail.

His heart, indeed, dictated his actions throughout his life.
He could not bear to see suffering; it was ironic that this
emotional man should have chosen a profession which
brought him into close contact with so much of the seamy
side.

175

CHAPTER XIII

A Barrister in the House

I n January, 1924, Curtis was asked if he would stand
for Parliament. The Rt. Hon. E. G. Pretyman, who
had been Conservative member for Chelmsford for fifteen
years, had lost the seat at the last election to the Liberal
candidate, and decided not to stand again. The choice
of Curtis was fairly obvious, though during his earlier
years he had not taken much active interest in politics,
and was not fond of the idea. Indeed, his old friend
Marshall-Hall had continually said to him: “Don’t be
stupid, Harry; you won’t like it. You’ll find it too
much for you. Don’t say I haven’t warned you.”

But Curtis considered it his duty to stand for a division
where he had lived so long and in a county which had so
long been the home of his ancestors. The seat had been
lost to the Liberals mainly through the apathy of the
Conservative voters, and there was a vast amount of
work to do in visiting the small villages and towns in.
the countryside to revive enthusiasm. Every village con¬
sidered itself to be of supreme importance and Curtis
determined to visit all of them; at week-ends he often
worked harder than during the week, having high tea at
six o’clock in the afternoon, travelling to two or three
villages in the evening, and returning exhausted to a cold

176

A BARRISTER IN THE HOUSE

supper near midnight. He had, however, the support of
his family. His wife was an excellent speaker and addressed
many meetings : his daughter Ann took the greatest interest
in his speeches, and although his clerk, John Winck-
worth, professed to be at a loss to understand why Curtis
made so many speeches without fees, he also put his
shoulder to the wheel.

Curtis hoped he would be the exception to the super¬
stition that barristers make bad politicians. A quarter of
a century before, Marshall-Hall had given proof that there
was some substance in the belief, but Curtis had a better
manner with a meeting and a readier reply for a heckler.
Throughout 1924, therefore, while in the Courts of
Justice he was fighting for the lives of men in three of
the most famous cases of his career, in the villages of
Essex he was attending garden parties, fetes and bazaars,
rummage sales, political socials, smoking concerts and
dinners, and at least one “ tremendous mass meeting in
the village hall.”

He made himself hail-fellow-well-met in every corner
of the constituency, became a familiar figure at the wheel
of the open Rolls, and obtained a truly magnificent press.
The Liberals had got in by some 3,000 votes, but for the
election fight at the end of October Labour put in another
barrister as candidate, Major N. H. Moller, and the sitting
member, Mr. S. W. Robinson, was likely to lose the
Labour votes that had undoubtedly put him in some
years before.

It was the “ Zinovieff Letter Election ” and the publica¬
tion of the famous letter of the Premier, Mr. Ramsay
MacDonald, had given Conservative candidates an ex-

177 n

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cellent talking-point. The withdrawal of the Campbell
prosecution and the proposed Russian Treaty were other
matters which village electors were asked to consider,
and, without having read a single line about either, were
expected to denounce with indignation. Curtis made
great play with both points in the usual vein of a candidate
who has every confidence of victory. The usual allega¬
tions were made that he was standing for Parliament in
order to better himself, and he made the usual capital
out of them by a vigorous and indignant denial; he
had a perfect platform manner and a ready wit. For the
200 meetings that he addressed shortly before polling
day, when he drove from village to village throughout
the ev enin g, he had three speeches in readiness, the sub¬
ject of considerable chaff from his family. And he used
his daughter’s idea for an election poster that became very
familiar. Chelmsford Radio Station was then called 5 XX.
Curtis had hundreds of posters made with the inscription :
“ 5XX CALLS 4C-B.”

He noted with interest in his press-cuttings how the
press of opposing interests can deal with one subject.
A photograph was taken of Curtis, looking very pros-
- perous in a huge overcoat, talking to a poorly-dressed
road-sweeper. The Daily Mail headed it: “ Sir Henry
solicits the support of a roadman.” The Daily Herald
ran the caption : " Thoroughly comfortable; will you
vote to keep me thoroughly comfortable while you keep
your old hat and old boots and go on sweeping the
roads ? ”

But it was a clean fight, and Curtis loved it. He was
proud of one peroration that he kept for the final day’s

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A BARRISTER IN THE HOUSE

canvassing, in which he verbally waved the Union Jack
with great vigour, spoke of the “ thin Red Line ” and
was, of course, rewarded with terrific enthusiasm, while
women in the audience showed their approval with their
tears. And there was always the “ little story ” that sent
the audience away happy, the best of which concerned
the simple old cockney shop-keepers who were arraigned
for the offence of selling cigarettes after eight o’clock.
They were tried by a venerable magistrate with a bald
head, and during the case it was obvious that the old
man felt the draughts in the Court very keenly. As the
prosecution ended, he realized that he stood in danger
of contracting a severe cold, and dragged from his pocket
a black silk skull cap. As he fitted it on his head, one
of the defendants stiffened with horror, and said in an
audible whisper : “ Lumme, ’e’s going to sentence us to
death!”

He was good, too, at the riposte that brings a laugh.

“ If you are elected,” shouted one heckler, “ will you
defend us for nothing?”

“ That depends exactly on what crime you are thinking
of committing,” said Curtis.

“ Never has Sir Henry conducted a case more skilfully
than the case against Socialism,” wrote a national paper.
“His wonderfully mellow voice can swell to a rushing
cascade of fierce intensity, and then sink to a quiet coaxing
cajoling tenderness. Interrupters do not trouble him.
The man whose cross-examination has brought clever
criminals to punishment can kill the average political
heckler with one retort.”

He was returned with a 5,000 majority in the Labour

179

landslide of 1924. His was the largest individual poll
ever returned, in the largest general poll in the history
of the division, Essex being one of the twenty-one counties
in which the Conservatives won every seat. And the
News of the World depicted Sir Henry and Sir Henry
Slessor, the two legal victors with the caption : “ Where
there is no moaning at the Bar.”

During the year he resolved to move more freely in
social circles. He spoke at the Press Club on a singularly
brilliant “ Criminal Justice Evening,” with Lord Darling
and Mr. Travers Humphreys and Mr. J. D. Cassels among
the guests, and at the Stage Golfing Society Dinner.

But his career in the House of Commons was destined
to be of short duration. During the election campaign,
Sir Henry had been warned by the doctors that he was
taking a risk if he intended to increase his hours of work.
But he made a resolution to speak once a fortnight in the
House if it were possible, and though he had a contempt
for the forensic ability of most of the Members of the
House, he liked the atmosphere, and he liked the inform¬
ality of the Commons smoke-room. On April 1, 1925,
soon after coming from a big murder case, he was due
to make his maiden speech. It would be thought that
for this important occasion, and to honour a new-comer
to the House, who came with a great reputation in another
sphere, a subject would have been found for him that
suited his nature and his gifts. He could have made a
“ human appeal ” to the House better than any other
member. He might, with the proper subject, have filled
the house to the doors on every subsequent occasion,
and made his mark as a member to be listened to.

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A BARRISTER IN THE HOUSE

But for his maiden speech Sir Henry was asked to move
an amendment to the Widows’ Pensions Act. He could
arouse in himself only a slight interest. The House was
conscious that this was merely a formal maiden speech,
on a subject of which the Honourable Member for the
Chelmsford Division knew very little from his own experi¬
ence. Curtis had read it up and written copious notes
—a fatal procedure. His hands were encumbered by
several sheets of paper at which he was expected to glance
for every sentence. He was uncomfortable and fidgety,
unlike his usually confident self, and though he warmed
to his task, it was obvious that he was not happy. He
was guilty of switching from the dramatic to the common¬
place in a manner that had never been known in his
addresses in a Court of Law. At one stage he said:
“ Then we are left with the death of the breadwinner
—death, the summons for which comes quite unannounced,
the summons from against which, when it comes, there
is no appeal. ...” Then he dropped from that dramatic
theme and continued without an interval: “ It is only
right, in my opinion, that the weekly contribution should
cover, for the man who is paying it, the pension of the
mother of his children.”

Curtis was perturbed and dispirited. His wife had
watched him from the gallery and knew that he had never
been so nervous in his life. People said that his speech
was excellent and the press remarked the following day
that he was an exception to the oft-repeated rule. But
those who knew him, realized that he had spoken far
below his capabilities. “ It’s only because the average
in the House is so low that anyone thought anything of

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my speech at all,” was Sir Henry’s own comment. He
never spoke again, for he had the uncomfortable and
unfamiliar feeling that no speech of his could make any
difference to anyone. Hitherto he had always known
that every word of his might influence someone: speak¬
ing on the side of the Conservative party in the House,
he felt that nothing he could say would make an iota of
difference for the Government which had such a huge
majority. He often said: “ How I wish we were in
opposition.”

Sir Henry’s first case of interest in 1924 was the Rodeo
Prosecution. Mr. Charles B. Cochran had brought Tex
Austin’s rodeo from America as an entertainment for the
British Empire Exhibition at Wembley. It was the first
time that English people had had an opportunity of seeing
the great cowboy sport that is so popular in America,
and with his usual flair for publicity Mr. Cochran had
made the entire nation conscious of the picturesqueness
of some score of cowboys who rode through the streets
of London in motor-coaches lassooing the top hats of
City men, whooping through the restaurants and theatres
and generally providing their own advertisement. They
were excellent showmen, and brave and clever men. But
when, at their first appearance at the newly opened
stadium, there was the ominous and sickening crack
of a broken limb as a lassoo curled round the leg of
a steer, the press of the country doubted whether such
entertainment would be tolerated by the British public.
The R.S.P.C.A. had its inspectors watching the spectacle,
and summonses soon followed. Curtis was briefed
for the R.S.P.C.A., Marshall-Hall was briefed for Mr.

182

A BARRISTER IN THE HOUSE

Cochran, while Tex Austin was represented by Mr. Walter
Frampton.

Mr. Cochran possibly found some benefit through the
publicity given to the case. He announced that the show
would go on, but with the omission of the steer-roping
contests in one of which the accident had occurred.
Meanwhile the cowboys had lost half their number,
incapacitated and in hospital in the excellent “ bull-dog¬
ging ” contests in the course of which the rider of a horse
throws himself round the neck of a galloping steer and
drags it to the ground. They were cheerful invalids,
and took their injuries purely as a matter of course. And
the majority of the public found vast entertainment in
the new spectacle that they provided at Wembley—so
long as there was no obvious cruelty to the animals.

The summonses, which were heard by the Wealdstone
magistrates, referred to the “ cruel ill-treatment of a
number of steers during a steer-roping contest,” and
were against Mr. Cochran for “ keeping a place for the
purpose of fighting certain animals, to wit, steers.”

Outside the Court the cowboys sat on the kerb before
a large crowd, twirling their io-gallon hats. Tex Austin
was besieged by autograph hunters, and it was evident
that although many thousands of people believed that
cruelty to animals resulted from their performances in
the arena, the cowboys themselves had become public
heroes. Curtis, opening the case, spoke of their perform¬
ance as an “ entertainment.” Marshall-Hall would have
none of this, but Curtis replied : “ You can call it what
you like. Sir Edward Marshall-Hall, but I am going to
call it an entertainment.” After describing the incidents,

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Curtis said, “the animal comes in for the purpose of
bringing money into the pockets of Mr. Cochran and
possibly, Mr. Austin. I do not know if it is going to
be suggested that Mr. Cochran is not responsible, but
perhaps some people will think that Mr. Cochran is far
more guilty than the cowboys themselves of cruelty to
these animals. I wonder what sport it is to the animal
which has its legs broken. ... You do not get out of
this what is known by the Englishman’s love of
sport.”

There was a great deal of prejudice shown by-the public
towards the case, and Marshall-Hall himself had received
letters charging him with being a “ dirty traitor,” because
he had formerly spoken on behalf of the Dumb Friends’
League. “ I deeply resent the suggestion that I have no
sympathy with animals,” he said. “ I regret very much
the fana tical feeling that has been broadcast condemning
everybody before they have had a chance of replying.”

Sir Henry could do very little against the many wit¬
nesses called by the defence. Sir Edward Marshall-Hall’s
clients had advertised for witnesses of the spectacle, and
-had received the offers of several volunteers, many of
whom said they had observed no cruelty. Tex Austin
himself, who said he had been prosecuted in America
by “ a similar bunch of people,” proved a difficult witness.
“ The steer was quite happy with its broken leg ? ” asked
Curtis. “ I never asked it,” said Tex. And the case
came to a somewhat tame ending on its third day, the
Bench being of the opinion that there had been no cruelty
in the exhibition, and the summonses were therefore
dismissed.

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A BARRISTER IN THE HOUSE

The final day’s hearing of the rodeo case seemed to
Curtis merely like a light interval between two cases of
grim and terrible drama. Only four days before, he had
heard Jean Pierre Vaquier sentenced to death and seen
him dragged screaming from the dock. And a week
later, he was to appear for the Crown against Mahon—
in one of the most gruesome and eerie murder trials that
he had ever experienced.

The details of Vaquier’s love-story with the wife of the
proprietor of the Blue Anchor Hotel at Woking, and his
carefully-planned murder of her husband, have been told
frequently in the press and in books of great murder
trials. It was a case of obvious appeal to the student of
criminology and to the seeker after sensation. Sir Henry
did not like the case. When he first saw Vaquier, after
he had made no fewer than five statements to the police,
he indicated that he believed a certain line of defence
would be advisable. Vaquier agreed. At their next
meeting the excitable, bearded Frenchman indicated that
he wished to change his mind; he preferred that an
entirely different defence should be put forward. Curtis
protested. Vaquier could not speak English, and Sir
Henry’s French was inexpert, so that their consultations
were further complicated by the necessity of having to
employ an interpreter. And after that second meeting,
Curtis would have liked to have thrown up the brief
had he not known that it was his duty to continue rather
than prejudice the defence, a view in which he was sup¬
ported by Sir Douglas Hogg.

The brief points of the charge were that while in
Biarritz, Mrs. Jones, the wife of the owner of the Blue

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Anchor Hotel, had become friendly with Vaquier. When
he followed her to England she made him welcome in
her husband’s hotel. Two weeks after arrival he went
to a chemist in London and bought strychnine. And at
the end of the month the hotel proprietor was found
dead from strychnine poison administered in a dose of
bromo salts. Vaquier was questioned that night, gave
three other statements during the next eleven days, and
was arrested nearly three weeks after the murder, follow¬
ing a statement to the police by the chemist who had
sold him the poison.

It was a strange love-story that was told to Curtis in
his chambers. Curtis could not forget that these two
creatures whose paths had accidentally crossed in an hotel
in Biarritz could speak hardly a word of a common lan¬
guage ; they made love by dictionary, and in other cir¬
cumstances their difficulties might have been farcical.
Jean Vaquier always addressed' her as “ Madame Jones ”
—even on the most intimate occasions. He preserved a
courtly attitude towards her, and it was perhaps part of
his charm for the opposite sex that he was such a vain
and flattering courtier. He wept when she left him for
the first time in the South of France; he begged her on
bended knees to return and become his mistress. He
showered compliments on her with true Basque impulsive¬
ness and skill. It must have been a source of sorrow to
him that when he came to England to get in touch with
her within two days of arrival, he must come, not in the
guise of a faithful knight, but as the hopeful vendor of
an apparatus for treating sausages.

Mr. Jones, the publican, was a mild drunkard. He

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A BARRISTER IN THE HOUSE

frequently suffered the next morning from his excesses,
and was in the habit of taking salts in an effort to recover.
A fortnight after the Frenchman’s arrival at the hotel
there was a party at which several of the guests were
drunk. Mr. Jones, although he had obviously drunk a
great deal, seemed unaffected, but the next morning he
wished to have his drink of salts. He found that Vaquier
had been down before him; he took his salts, took also
an emetic that made him sick, and sat down opposite the
Frenchman. Jean Pierre Vaquier was waiting for him
to die.

He was already dying when the doctor arrived just
before midday. Half a grain of strychnine was found
in the body; and he died from asphyxiation—the usual
result of taking the poison.

Vaquier made a statement to the police the next day.
And when Mrs. Jones said to him: “You have assassin¬
ated Mr. Jones,” he replied : “ Yes, Mabs ; for you.”
A few days later he moved to another hotel in Woking,
and from time to time volunteered new statements to
the police. Why did he do that? Curtis had the
explanation; it was because, according to the laws of
his own country, he must prove himself innocent of the
crime.

The trial was held on July z at the Guildford Assizes.
The Court-room in those days was no more than a village
hall used throughout the year for dances and other festivi¬
ties. Next door was the local theatre and the whole
appearance of the Court was that of scenery roughly
bolted together for the Court scene in a stage drama.
When the Judge opened the door leading from his retiring¬
ly

CURTIS

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room, he was using the same corridor through which
the theatre stallholders passed, and in the brief moment
that the door was open there could be seen the notice:
“ Stalls this way/’ But for that week the theatrical
engagement had been cancelled and dances were held
elsewhere: in the real life drama that was now being
enacted, however, there were some famous actors: Mr.
Justice Avory as the Judge: the Attorney-General (Sir
Patrick Hastings, K.C., M.P.), Sir Edward Marshall-Hall,
K.C., Mr. H. D. Roome, and Mr. George Ansley for the
prosecution; Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett and Mr. A. B.
Lucy for the defence. And to continue the illusion, the
most imaginative novelist could hardly have depicted a
character more fanciful and vain than the prisoner.

Vaquier was careful to pomade and scent his hair and
beard before he appeared in‘court every day; he was
vain about his clothes, and it was obvious that he wished
to be well in the limelight and to gain a reputation as a
wit, even though that reputation might bring him nearer
to the gallows. He posed and postured, and his chief
objection to the methods of British justice were that he
was not given the opportunity of being confronted with
his accusers as is the custom of France, and that there
was no reconstruction of the crime. He told Curtis that
he wished to speak to the Judge himself, and to shout
his defiance at the witnesses as they told their stories.
He was brought to Guildford every day by train, and he
found his police guard so tolerant that he became certain
that he was the hero of the trial. He was allowed to
talk with newspaper-men on the train, and in spite of
the warnings of his counsel, it became a fixed conviction

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A BARRISTER IN THE HOUSE

in his mind that he was merely going through a formality
that was preparatory to his being acquitted.

Curtis was worried and restless with this attitude of
his client and he was still more worried when, after three
days spent in listening to the evidence for the prosecution,
Vaquier gave evidence and was frequently interrupted by
the Judge. The examination did not go well, but Curtis
was hoping that he could substantiate his argument that
Vaquier could not have wished for the death of Mr.
Jones. Vaquier had said that he had lent Mr. Jones
money: he could produce little proof of this, but there
was more evidence to support Vaquier’s statement that
he was hoping to get Jones to finance a cafe in the
South of France. Further, it had been made more or
less certain that the love affair between the Frenchman
and the publican’s wife had ended some weeks before the
date of the alleged murder. Vaquier and Mrs. Jones
had last stayed together on March 3 : the party at the
Blue Anchor was on March 29, and in the interval Mrs.
Jones had shown quite clearly that she had no more use
for the attentions of the little Frenchman who was short
of money and who owed a considerable bill at the hotel.
She had herself lent him money on the strength of his
promise that he had sold the patent rights of his sausage
machine for £500 and was expecting payment. But
when Vaquier had asked her husband for a loan she had
secretly advised against it. In these circumstances it
was unlikely, Curtis hoped to show, that the embers of
that passion were still smouldering. Why, therefore,
should Vaquier encompass the death of the husband of
his former mistress ?

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Curtis also had great hopes in the result of his lengthy
cross-examination of Mrs. Jones. He had attacked vigor¬
ously the possibility of there being any truth in Vaquier’s
alleged remark: “ I did it for you, Mabs.” From the
beginning of their courtship they had always conversed
by means of a dictionary, and even at the London hotel
during their last night together, Vaquier’s English was
not yet proficient enough to be able to dispense with
the dictionary. The witnesses had agreed that he could
not speak English. Was it likely, therefore, that he had
made this alleged remark?

The Attorney-General had the right to the last word
to the jury, but when he stood up on the fourth day it
was to say that as the accused was a foreigner he would
waive that right. “ The prosecution is anxious that the
accused himself should feel that he has been treated in
this case with every possible fairness,” said Sir Patrick
Hastings. He spoke only for a few minutes, but in that
time he poured scorn on all the reasons Vaquier had given
for the lies he had told when buying the strychnine, for
the lies he had told about his finance, and the lies he had
told about his passion for Mrs. Jones. Did the jury not
think that he was making all those five statements to the
police because he wished to throw suspicion on to the
potman at the hotel? “I ask you to say that there is
only one possible verdict,” he concluded, “and that is
that the accused is Guilty.”

Curtis was even shorter in his closing speech for the
defence. He asked the jury to consider the attitude of
Vaquier when he found himself in a position that might
lead to an accusation of murder. In his own country

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A BARRISTER IN THE HOUSE

he would have to prove himself innocent: he did not
realize that in England a man is innocent until proved
guilty. “ I ask you to say,” said Sir Henry, “ if you
come to the conclusion that his story is untrue, that it
is an untrue story told because he thought it was essential
for him to state a story that would relieve him of the
responsibility of having purchased strychnine. Was it
not the attitude of an innocent man to shift the suspicion
from one person to another as he puzzled out who could
have committed the murder ? Mr. Jones’s life was essen¬
tial to Vaquier. . . . What grounds had the jury for
disbelieving his story that he had lent money to Jones. . . .
The evidence is against there being a motive at all.” And
finally he attacked Mrs. Jones. “ The Attorney-General
has said he was not going to trouble to impress the im¬
portance of that statement upon you,” he said. “ No,
because Mrs. Jones is a witness whose evidence you
cannot rely upon.”

But the summing-up seemed to be against Vaquier.
Mr. Justice Avory asked why it was that there was no
explanation for the purchase of the poison. Could it
not be that when Vaquier found Mrs. Jones was no
longer affectionate to him while in the presence of her
husband, that was an additional reason for him desiring
that the husband should be put away ?

Vaquier was smiling and confident as the jury retired.
He had made several witticisms during the hearing and
in conversation with his interpreter had commented
frivolously on many points in the evidence. When a
witness was described as a builder and undertaker, he
had said: “ Ah! I see, he houses them above and

191

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below ground.” He had maintained his elegance and
his smiling self-assurance. Even when the jury returned
after an absence of nearly two hours he smiled confidently.
They translated the dread verdict to him and there passed
over his face an expression of complete astonishment and
despair. “ Monsieur le President--! ” he began.

Mr. Justice Avory: “ I can only listen to any reason
in Law why I should not pass sentence upon you.”
Vaquier shook the flimsy dock with blows of his fist.
There was a wild light in his eyes and his voice rose
almost to a scream. He babbled rapidly in French and
the interpreter calmly translated: “ I can only say that
I am innocent. ... I swear on my mother’s and my
father’s grave, still fresh, that I am quite innocent of the
crime! ” The relentless voice of Mr. Justice Avory
continued up to the words : “ . . . and may the Lord
have mercy upon your soul.”

“ You have given an iniquitous verdict! ” shouted
Vaquier.

“ I can listen to no more, let him be removed,” said
the Judge, as the police constables almost carried the
slight, gesticulating figure of the condemned man from
the dock. A babble of words issued from him and died
away as he was dragged from the Court.

There were many sympathizers in the crowd which
waited to see him. For a time he had lost his reason
and composure altogether, but as the police closed round
to escort him away, he was once again calm. He seemed
determined to vindicate himself and insisted on an appeal
without delay. During the next week there were several
consultations between Curtis and his solicitors and it was

192

IMPROBABLE

Mr. Norman Birket, K.C., is cross-examined by Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett, K.C

A BARRISTER IN THE HOUSE

rumoured that new evidence of sensational import was
to be introduced. A French barrister came from Bor¬
deaux to interview him, and once again Vaquier showed
all his old confidence and expressed his refusal to believe
that he could be wrongly condemned to die. He wrote
from Wandsworth Prison a pathetic but characteristic
letter to a friend in which he spoke of his being enlight¬
ened by “ that great heart who is my ardent defender—
Curtis-Bennett, to whom with all confidence I give my
life to defend.” He wrote to Curtis pleading with him
to come and visit him as often as possible in a poetic
semi-humorous vein, and concluded: “I hope that once
again I shall see that fair sky of France. It is necessary
that my new judges shall understand the feelings of a
man unjustly condemned—of a man whom death does
not frighten, for it has grazed him several times in the
service of his country. But then he would have given
it with pleasure and love, for the sacrifice had a mean¬
ing. ...” And the address given at the head of the
letter was “ Wandsworth Palace.”

The application to call fresh evidence was refused.
Curtis appeared with the promised new evidence, saying
that this was known to none of the defence until after
the trial.

The Lord Chief Justice: “ If this sort of thing is to
be allowed, the oath to be taken by prisoners will have
to be altered to ‘ I swear to tell the truth, five-eighths
of the truth and nothing but the truth. I will keep the
remaining three-eighths for the Court of Criminal Appeal.’ ”

Briefly, the new evidence was that Vaquier had dis¬
covered in a shed behind the Blue Anchor a loose brick

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which when removed disclosed a hiding place in which
there was a bottle containing strychnine. Vaquier had
told of this while in prison, and the police had found
that the statement was correct. This bottle might account
for the discrepancies in the amount of strychnine found
in the body and prove that some other person had every
opportunity of administrating the poison. Curtis also
protested that the summing-up was unfair.

But the Court of Criminal Appeal decided that since
Curtis was, in effect, asking leave to recall his client to
give evidence which he suppressed at the trial, the applica¬
tion must fail. Once again Vaquier, who was present
before the Court, created a scene when he knew his last
hope had gone.

“ Je demande la Justice, Monsieur le President! ” he
cried, and was removed from the dock with difficulty.

Vaquier was hanged on August 12, 1924, and by that
time Curtis had already been immersed in another sen¬
sational murder trial which contained hardly a single
alleviating feature.

194

CHAPTER XIV
Great Murder Trials

S hortly after the War a young and handsome man
who took an inordinate interest in his clothes and
personal appearance, assaulted a semnt-girl at Chertsey
and received five years’ penal servitude. His name was
Patrick Herbert Mahon and he used his good looks and
his considerable expenditure on clothes to make an im¬
pression upon almost every woman he met. He was
married, but he had not learnt his lesson and had no
intention of settling down to domestic life. The fault
was not on one side only, for women pursued him and
he frequently had difficulty in ending his romances once
he tired of them. In 1924 he was still under police
observation as an ex-convict: but neither the interest of
the police nor his marriage vows prevented him from
pursuing his romantic instincts. And when he met a
woman who lived in a Soho flat, he took her to dinner
and she became a victim to his masculine charm at their
first meeting; her name was Emily Kaye and she did
not intend that this should be merely a casual romance.
She had a considerable sum of money in her possession
and she wished to spend the rest of her life with Patrick
Mahon. This proposal was not at all well taken; but
Emily suggested that they should try a “ love experiment ”

*95

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by living together in a bungalow on the Crumbles at
Eastbourne. Emily had another reason for desiring a
more or fess official partnership with Mahon. She had
become pregnant, and although Mahon denied later that
he knew of her condition, it is very probable tha t she
had mentioned this as a further reason for makin g hirr)
responsible for her future. Mahon was persuaded to
give in. He had not yet completely tired of her and at
the end of a few days, he thought, he could drive her to
leave him and, when she had departed, could then enter¬
tain the lady of his subsequent passion, using the bungalow
as his home. He therefore rented the bungalow which
Emily had seen advertised, and she came down to stay
with him.

She had every confidence that eventually she could
persuade him to live with her more or less indefinitely,
and to this end she parted with a large sum of money
which was the proceeds of the sale of securities. Emily
was to take up residence on April 12. On April io
Mahon met another woman, Ethel, and immediately decided
that she should be the next recipient of his favours. On
April 12 he made some curious purchases in London.
He bought a knife and a saw, which he said were for
use in the bungalow. On April 15 Emily Kaye and Mahon
had a quarrel. No doubt Emily was telling him again
that she would not be happy away from him and plead¬
ing that their “ love experiment ” had been successful.
Mahon, with the thought of Ethel in his mind, resisted
the suggestion. There was a fight. Mahon’s version
was that the woman threw an axe at him which bruised
him in passing and broke into two pieces when it struck

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the wall. Then they engaged in a violent struggle—
again according to Mahon; the strong and well-built
girl forced him on to the ground and knocked him un¬
conscious while she herself fell and split her head open
against the coal-scutde. Recovering consciousness, Mahon
had found that she was dead. He had rushed out of the
bungalow and becoming calmer had realized that he was
in a terrible predicament. He had already invited Ethel
down to live with him three days later. He might
stand accused of murdering Emily at any moment. In a
frenzy he dragged the body into a bedroom and locked
the door. Nothing must interfere with his plans. Nest
day he went to London, met Ethel and brought her back
to the bungalow. She noticed that there were a number
of women’s clothes about the room, but Mahon explained
this by saying his wife had recently visited him there. He
saw the danger of the secret in that room for which he
now bought a new Yale lock. Therefore, he sent a tele¬
gram to himself and told Ethel that they must return to
London as soon as possible. Weighing on his mind was
the thought of that body in the bedroom and he went
back to the bungalow with a new plan.

Looking round he saw nearby the instruments which
would serve him well. With the carving knife and saw
he cut the body of Emily Kaye in pieces limb by limb,
and thrust the limbs—some into the stove and some into
a cauldron of boiling water. There was the head with
its long flowing blonde hair. He thrust it into the stove,
and as the hair caught alight he watched the features of
the_ face contract into an almost living expression of
agonyand at that moment, as he covered his eyes in

J 97

horror, the heavens opened and overthe Crumbles swept
a terrifying storm that was preceded by one detonating"
clap of thunder. Mahon packed the various remaining
members of the body into a trunk, into a biscuit tin, and
into a hat box and stowed them in the bedroom. The
next day he went to London to meet Ethel and escort
her back to his bungalow.

On April 28, he packed the knife and several pieces of
'Emily’s blood-stained clothing into a bag, sprinkled them
•with Sanitas, and left it at Waterloo Station.^ There was
no plan in his mind save to keep away from that house
where he would ever be reminded of that last grim scene
when the features of his mistress contracted before him.
He knew, however, that it would be unsafe to leave the
bag in the left-luggage office. On May 2 he returned
to Waterloo and produced the cloakroom ticket. As he
turned, there was a hand on his shoulder. The police
had been too quick for him. The bag was opened in
his presence and he was arrested for murder.

They asked him at Scotland Yard how he could account
for the grim contents of the bag. “ I am fond of dogs,”
he said. “ I suppose I have carried some meat for the
dogs in it.” But late that night he made a long statement
which left little to be discovered. He told his story of
those sordid days and nights in the Crumbles bungalow,
and left nothing to the imagination. He gave every
detail in picturesque language: how he had cut up the
body and devoted great attention to the storm which had
shaken his courage when he had watched the eyes of Emily
Kaye open as the flames devoured her hair.

His solicitors briefed Mr. J. D. Cassels, K.C., for his

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GREAT MURDER TRIALS

defence. Yet it almost happened that Curtis-Bennett was
briefed. A young magazine writer had offered to pay for
the whole of Mahon’s defence, and expressed a desire
that it should be in Sir Henry’s hands. This proposition,
however, came to nothing.

Curtis was briefed for the Crown, and seldom en¬
countered a prisoner for whom he had greater dislike.
He could hardly restrain the instinct to show his disgust
of this calm, good-looking man who appeared so eager
to inspect every gruesome exhibit in the case.

It was noticed when the trial began on July ij, at
the Lewes Assizes, that Mahon was looking considerably
more healthy than at the police court proceedings shortly
before. He seemed sun-burnt and fat, although there
was a striking contrast in the colour of his hands, which
were pale and delicate. As a matter of fact, Mahon had
expressed a wish to obtain some chemical tan while in
gaol and had actually attempted to give his face an
artificial tan with tobacco juice. He had bought a new
9-guinea suit especially for the trial, and his clear-cut
handsome features radiated confidence. The trial excited
national interest, although few legal niceties were to be
debated, and the attention of the public—and of an Ameri¬
can Judge who sat beside Mr. Justice Avory—was con¬
centrated upon the shocking details of this most callous
killing.

Before him, Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett had the knife
and saw, together with the keys of the bedroom, and
the little coal-scuttle which, according to the prisoner,
had caused the death of Emily Kaye. He had also a
perfect model of the bungalow, built to scale, the bed-

199

room furnished and the wall-paper identical with that in
the house of death. Sir Henry’s opening speech was no
more than a narrative of the known facts, with the con¬
clusion : “ ... If these facts are proved it will be my
duty to ask you for a verdict that Patrick Mahon is
‘ Guilty ’ of the murder of Miss Kaye.” As in the Field
and Gray trial at the same Court, before the same Judge,
with Curtis and Cassels opposed to each other, the illness
of a juryman meant five hours’ delay, while Curtis restated
his case, but by the end of the second day the prosecution
was concluded and Sir Bernard Spilsbury had given his
opinion that it was impossible for the girl to have died
through falling on the coal-scuttle.

On that third day Mr. Cassels put his client into the
box. He had a pleasant level voice, although his imagina¬
tion was apt to run away with his tongue, for Mr. Justice
Avory was frequently obliged to pull him up with the
words: “ You are asked what you did, not all this
imagination.”

He told his version of the struggle and continued : “ I
went into the garden cra2y with fear. ... It dawned
on me what a horrible thing it was that she was lying
there and dead. The thought that she was dead flooded
my mind. ...” And now, answering Mr. Cassels’s
questions, he came to the details of how he had cut up
the body and boiled certain portions, while others he
put in the stove. His counsel was perhaps remembering
that interview he had had with Mahon in Brixton Prison
when Mahon had described his terror at the sudden
crash of the storm as Emily Kaye’s hair flared up in
flames.

GREAT MURDER TRIALS

“ And then you burnt the head,” suggested Mr. Cassels.

Mahon began to reply: “Yes,” he said, “I put the
head in the stove and when-”

Suddenly a clap of thunder shook that Court-room.
It had been a sultry day, but the unexpectedness of that
terrifying peel was enough to startle every hearer. Mahon
realized that the heavens had provided an amazing coin¬
cidence, he gripped the edge of the witness-box with white
hands and fear blazed from his eyes. Alone in the Court he
and Mr. Cassels realized the strange and eerie coincidence.
It was as if the elements had provided another reminder
of that dreadful moment when he had looked into the
eyes of his dead victim. It was fortunate that the incident
came at the end of the day. Patrick Mahon saw the hand
of God in that moment. It was as much as he could do
to answer the last formal question of his counsel: “ Did
you desire the death of Miss Kaye ? ”

“ Never at any time,” came from the trembling lips of
a limp and moaning prisoner.

Sir Henry’s cross-examination occupied the major part
of the next day. Mahon had recovered something of his
confidence, but he shivered when Curtis asked him to
repeat all the details he had given so glibly in his early
statements to the police. He now denied that he had
said that he poked the head with a poker as it burned.
But he showed something of his old confidence when
Curtis asked him why he did not use a carving-knife already
in the house for his ghastly task:

“ For a reason that you would not appreciate,” he
replied.

“ I am asking you why,” insisted Curtis.

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“ Because Miss Kaye had used that for our meals,” he
said.

Sir Henry pressed him almost to distraction with his
questions. He cried out in anger and in tears, and his
hands were trembling with rage before he collapsed and
said : “ It is futile. It is futile.” Later in the afternoon
Curtis calmly tore his evidence to pieces, leaving Mr.
Cassels only with the opportunity of asking the jury whether
a man murdered after he had obtained money? Where
was the motive ? he asked. “ Remembering all that this
man has gone through; all the things that e guilty ’ or
* not guilty ’ he has done, can you conceive that possibly
on the threshold of eternity you would get play-acting
from a man in such a grave position ? Have you before
you such an inhuman monster ? ”

The answer of the jury the next day was “Yes.”
Avory’s summing-up was dead against him. Was there
anything in his story, even if they believed it whole¬
heartedly, which would justify a verdict of manslaughter
or self-defence ? Emily Kaye was said to be strong and
athletic, but was there any ground for saying that without
a deadly weapon at hand Mahon’s life was in such danger
that he was justified in killing her in order to save himself?

From Patrick Mahon’s lips there came a bitter and
defiant protest as the death sentence was about to be
pronounced: “I am too conscious of the bitterness and
unfairness of the summing-up,” he said, and as he was
led away it was seen that the artificial sun tan with which
he hoped to impress the court, was not proof against
the deathly pallor that had spread over his hands and
features. He had a colour perhaps appropriate to the

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awful history of his acquaintanceship with poor Emily
Kaye, who was starved of romance: he was yellow.

“ Man of Prey ” the press called him, while giving
attention to the fact that his previous record was never
revealed in Court until after the death sentence, to the
astonishment of the Judicial Observer from America.
They called him the most remarkable criminal who had
ever stood in an English dock, but when Curtis-Bennett,
after the failure of the appeal, at which he was not called
upon to argue, and the execution in September, looked
back upon his own part in the trial of Patrick Mahon,
he thought of him only with loathing as the most callous
and brutal murderer he had ever known.

One last macabre detail marked the final moment of
Mahon’s existence. He was “ doubly hanged.” It seemed
that he had a certain amount of knowledge of the pro¬
cedure of the executioner. He knew that his feet must
stand within two chalk marks as the rope was adjusted
round his neck. He knew that immediately after the
fixing of the hood, the executioner would move swiftly
to a lever and cause the platform on which he stood to
swing away from under him. As he sensed that Pierre-
point moved to the lever, Mahon jerked his bound feet
forward in a wild attempt to place them on the stationary
part of the platform. At that moment the lever was
pulled and his body swung back, the base of the spine
striking with terrific force against the sharp edge of the
platform. That blow killed him, and half a second later
the spine was again broken at the neck by the jerk of the
rope.

Now Sir Henry’s evenings were occupied with a new

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brief which had come into his chambers. The brief was
for the Crown against John Norman Holmes Thorne, a
young poultry farmer who was charged with the murder
of a typist. It was said that Marshall-Hall had been
approached to defend him, but he returned the brief as
he was still occupied in the famous Dennistoun case. As
well as being again at the Lewes Assizes, several features
of the case were very similar to those of the Mahon trial.
Mr. Cassels, K.C., was once again defending the prisoner :
there were the same grim exhibits, and the same gruesome
evidence concerning the cutting up of a body: once
more 3,000 members of the public applied for admittance
to a court which accommodated only fifty: but on the
bench was a judge who was experiencing his first murder
trial—Mr. Justice Finlay.

The trial began on March 11, and Curtis outlined the
grim and dramatic narrative of a young man who was
being driven into marriage. Norman Thorne was a
religiously-minded man, a Sunday School teacher and
Band of Hope preacher, who also belonged to the “ Alliance
of Honour.” In 1921 he was “walking out” with a
girl named Elsie Cameron. In 1922 he started a poultry
farm at Crowborough. That Christmas the couple became
engaged. The next year it appears that they anticipated
the wedding ceremony and became on the most intimate
terms. Miss Cameron staying at the little hut which was
Norman’s home on the poultry farm. The girl, accord¬
ing to the young man who now stood in the dock, was
the more passionate of the two : “ I persuaded her to
join the * Alliance of Honour ’ because she was growing
very passionate,” Thorne said. And the young man’s

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life was further complicated by a fascination exerted over
him by another young woman who lived actually in Crow-
borough, one Elizabeth-. As his passion for Eliza¬

beth grew, the fascination of Elsie died : Elsie appreciated
the position immediately, and wrote to her fiance : “ Please
arrange about getting married as soon as possible. Things
will soon be noticeable to everybody.”

Elsie, it will be seen, was employing a ruse to force
her young man into marriage. Although she was now
a member of the “ Alliance of Honour,” that did not
prevent her from attempting the most cowardly and most
ancient of all deceits. She was telling Norman that she
was about to become a mother: in the most tragic cir¬
cumstances this was proved to be false.

She knew all about Elizabeth, and wrote: “ You say
you did not know last week what you know now, so am
I to take it that you have got this other girl into the same
condition as you have me ? Oh! Norman, you have
broken my heart. I expect you to marry me and finish
with the other girl and as soon as possible. My baby
must have a name, and another thing, I love you in spite
of all. Oh! you have deceived me; my heart is really
broken.”

Elsie Cameron was highly strung and nervous, liable
to hysteria and frequently ill from mental strain. And
it was to calm her that Norman Thome eventually told
her he would marry her. On December 5, however,
she was not satisfied that he was making any preparations
to carry out his promise. She arrived at his hut and
told him she would stay there until the marriage had
taken place. Now Norman was in a difficulty. That

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very night he had arranged to meet Elizabeth.' He kept
the appointment and kept also an appointment with her
for the next day. On December 7, he wrote a letter
addressed to Elsie Cameron: “ My own darling Elsie
—where did you get to yesterday? I went to Groom-
bridge, but you didn’t turn up. I suppose you were
detained unexpectedly. ...”

But the letter was not delivered to Elsie, for she had
not been seen again at home; and she was never again
seen alive. The search for her began, for Thorne was
saying that, as his letter showed, he had not seen her at
all. He appeared to be perfectly frank with the police
and anxious to help them, and on December 18 he went
to Crowborough police station and asked if there were
any further developments. The police told him that
people had seen Elsie walking towards his hut, and asked
for permission to search the place. He readily gave it,
but they could find no trace whatever of Miss- Cameron.
But on January ij, the police were more suspicious, and
began to dig in the chicken-run. A few feet under the
ground they found parts of her body, dismembered with
a saw. Norman Thorne then told the police that Elsie
had indeed come to his hut and had committed suicide
by hanging herself on a beam while he had gone out to
keep an appointment with Elizabeth. He was arrested,
and the police asked him to demonstrate exactly what he
had found when he returned to the hut. He pointed to
a cross-beam, and said he had walked in to find her sus¬
pended by a piece of string knotted tightly round her
neck. He had cut her down hastily and carried her to
a mattress. She was not dead when he found her, but

zo6

GREAT MURDER TRIALS

as he staggered across the room and collapsed with her
on the mattress, she died. The realization that had come
to Mahon, now struck Norman Thorne with equal strength.
He was dazed and nearly out of his mind. He rushed out
of the hut with the intention of getting a doctor’s help.
But the night air brought with it the chill dread that he
would be immediately accused of murder. He stayed
throughout the night in an agony of despair, and at dawn
his mind was made up. He cut the body to pieces and
dug a shallow grave. The body was buried again at
Willesden. On February 4, however, another post¬
mortem examination was made by Sir Bernard Spilsbury
and Dr. Bronte. Sir Bernard was to be called by the
Crown: Dr. Bronte by the defence. These two experts
had formed different opinions, and were to give in Court
precisely opposite views of the circumstances in which
Elsie Cameron had died.

Curtis outlined the case for the Crown as being that
Elsie had become a nuisance to Thorne because of his
affection for the other girl. “ That evening of December 5,
Thorne murdered Elsie Cameron, and having murdered
her he cut up her body and disposed of it. From that
time he told lies continually until finally, when the body
was found, he made a statement.”

Mr. Cass els had prepared a magnificent defence. He
was fortunate in having an opinion from Dr. Bronte,
the great pathologist, that was favourable to his case.
He proceeded to prove by cross-examination that Elsie
Cameron was a girl of highly nervous temperament, and
had previously threatened to commit suicide. He put it
that, though she was wrong, she sincerely believed she

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was pregnant, and he was able to produce witnesses who
spoke of quite serious illnesses she had suffered as a
result of her nerves. The police were not satisfied with
Thorne’s explanation of the hanging of Elsie. There
were no marks on the beams, such as would have been
made by a string. And Sir Bernard Spilsbury said in
reply to Curtis that there were no marks on Elsie’s neck
that signified she had been hanged. Mr. Cassels was
suggesting that there was an attempt at hanging, and
that the body was cut down before death, Elsie dying
from shock immediately after being cut down. “ Were
there creases on Elsie’s neck ? ” asked Mr. Cassels. Sir
B ernar d replied that there were normal creases in the
skin. This was the vital point of the defence, and Mr.
Cassels promised to bring Dr. Bronte and several other
medical witnesses to say that those creases were not natural,.
and were consistent with the pressure of a rope upon
the neck. Microscope slides had been made showing
the pressing of minute blood vessels. “The challenge
of the defence,” said Mr. Cassels, “ is that those slides
from that part of the neck prove the case of Norman
Thorne. If you think that there was some crushing of
the neck, my submission is that that must mean a verdict
of acquittal. ...”

In the witness-box Thorne conducted himself well, and
told his story without emotion. He had to tell how he
had divided the body and what he had thought in those
terrible hours while he determined on the attempt to con¬
ceal a tragedy. “ I flung myself on the bed and I cried
like a baby,” he said. “I realized the awful end that
neurasthenia had brought her to. I realized the terrible

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position in which I was placed, and thought of suicide
myself. I made a big effort to pull myself together. I
succeeded.”

He had to demonstrate in Court with the beam
and the rope. But his ordeal really began after lunch
on the third day when Curtis stood up to cross-
examine :

“On the morning of December 5,” began Curtis,
“ which of these two girls you were in love with did you
desire to marry ? ”

The question was one of terrible difficulty. It was a
typical opening query of Sir Henry’s. Apparently un¬
important, it was surprising enough to shake the equanimity
of any man facing Curtis across the court. If Thorne
had said he wanted to marry Elizabeth, then he had
admitted a reason for wishing Elsie out of the way: if
he had said Elsie, then he would also have admitted a
further series of lies in his letters to Elizabeth. Thorne
made perhaps the only answer: “ Well, I don’t know
I was particularly desirous of marrying either just at that
time.”

Another question of Sir Henry’s caused Thorne to pause
in contemplation of his own predicament. Thorne had
said Elsie knew he would marry her if she were pregnant,
and when he went out that night she believed he would
keep his promise.

“ Then why did she commit suicide ? ” asked Curtis
quiedy.

Thorne: “ Why! She left no message behind and I
don’t think it is safe for me to say.”

But the real battle was between the expert pathologists.

209 p

One of those called by Mr. Cassels said he thought Sir
Bernard Spilsbury was very skilled—“ But if I may say
so, a trifle dogmatic.”

Dr. Bronte differed completely from Sir Bernard Spils¬
bury in his opinion of the injuries. Sir Bernard was
certain that Elsie had died from bruises: Dr. Bronte
said Sir Bernard had not examined the marks micro¬
scopically as he had done : The cause of death was “ partial
hanging, with ensuing shock.”

Sir Henry was not happy about the trial. Dr. Bronte
and the other medical experts had made a most impressive
showing for the defence, and he could see that Mr. Cassels
had, with his customary skill, pieced together a very
credible narrative which was supported by the evidence
obtained during the cross-examination. Sir Henry had
done something, towards shaking the testimony of these
experts, but he was not satisfied; there appeared to be
a complete stalemate, and everything depended upon
which of the experts was believed by the jury. Before
adjourning on the Saturday afternoon the Judge suggested
that three of the medical experts should meet on the
Sunday, with the object of comparing the microscopic
slides which each had prepared. Over the week-end
Curtis was engaged in long deliberations with his associates,
and on the Monday, after obtaining leave to recall Sir
Bernard Spilsbury, he introduced a new point that greatly
strengthened his case.

In a statement to the police Thorne had said that when
he returned to the hut he saw the body of Miss Cameron,
the eyes puckered up. “ Assuming unconsciousness had
intervened at that time, if not death, I just want to find

GREAT MURDER TRIALS

out from you what would have been the condition of the
eyes ? ” said Curtis.

“ There would be no puckering,” said Sir Bernard.
“ The eyes would not be completely closed or completely
open.”

And once again Sir Bernard was emphatic that the
string said to have been used by a suicidal Elsie Cameron
would not have caused the creases in her neck. Mr.
Cassels put one of his experts into the box, and the position
was one of stalemate once again. It seemed that the
verdict must be upon the medical evidence, and Mr.
Cassels in his address to the jury recalled that he had
warned them that the issue might depend on a micro¬
scope slide : “ Was I far wrong ? ” he asked. “ What a
tragedy of human justice it would be if the life of a man
is to depend on the accuracy or fallibility o£ one individual.
We can all admire attainment, take our hats off to ability,
acknowledge the high position that a man has won in
his sphere, but it is a long way to go if you have to say
that because that man says one thing, there can be no room
for error.”

The layman, reading the case, might be excused for
expressing wonderment at the situation. The prosecu¬
tion stated that Elsie died from bruises inflicted on the
head with an Indian club. The defence asserted that she
died from the shock after partial asphyxiation by hanging,
and accounted for the bruises by saying that Thome
stumbled with her and accidentally bruised her in falling.
The doctors could not agree whether or not she had indeed
suffered at all from a rope or string being drawn round
her neck.

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Naturally, therefore, Curtis was worried. In his address
for the Crown he commented on the evidence which had
tended to show that Elsie had suicidal tendencies: “If
one went back into the lives of most people, I wonder
whether one would not be able to find some such incidents
as have been pointed out to you in this case. What
motive had she that night to commit suicide ? Thorne
had a strong motive, and you must remember that the
man who said his nerves were so affected by the sight of
the hanging girl, was shortly afterwards to dismember
the body. ... I submit that on the evidence you have
listened to in the last four days, no reasonable man could
doubt that Elsie Cameron did not die as a result of suicide,
but died as a result of murder.”

The Judge said there was no doubt that Norman Thorne
was between two fires. Could they say that Elsie actually
had suicidal tendencies ? Were Thorne’s actions consistent
with innocence ? “ Your verdict should be based on a

fair dispassionate consideration of the evidence. If after
considering, it alike for prosecution and defence, your
minds remain in doubt, then the prisoner is entitled to
be acquitted.”

None could say that Mr. Justice Finlay had favoured
either the prosecution or the defence by this masterly
summing-up, but the jury were absent only half an hour
before pronouncing a verdict of “ Guilty.” When Mr.
Cassels, who had now been joined by Mr. Jowitt, K.C.,
appealed for the life of Thorne on April 7, their Lordships
did not call upon Counsel for the Crown to argue. An’
appeal was also made for the appointment of a special
medical commissioner to consider the question of the

212

GR'EAT MURDER TRIALS

bruises on Elsie Cameron’s body. ivlr. Jowitt said that
there had never been a stronger case for using the Act
of 1907 which provided that a Judge might be guided
in scientific matters by a skilled medical assessor. But
the Lord Chief Justice remarked that the unanimity of
twelve jurymen was convincing, and when on the second
day their Lordships gave their decision, it was a refusal
of the application. There was no ground whatever for
the suggestion in the present case that the jury failed to
appreciate the conflicting views put before them in the
medical and surgical aspects of the case.

The haw Journal reported that in the legal profession
there was regret and profound disquiet at the result of
the appeal. “ The verdict of the jury on a question of
pathology is valueless,” it said. “ Thorne is entitled to
feel that he has been condemned by a tribunal which was
not capable of forming first-hand judgment, but followed
the man with the biggest name.” Such, apparently, was
the haw Journal’s view of trial by jury.

Thorne was hanged. Curtis, while he was convinced
that justice had been done, knew that but for his earnest
hours of thought during that vital week-end, his friend
Jimmy Cassels might have brought off one of the greatest
victories of the decade.

But in the little hut where Thome lived, the police, on
searching, found something of no little interest—many
newspaper cuttings of the Mahon trial. . . .

213

CHAPTER XV
When Curtis Talked

W hen Curtis talked about “ the finest profession in
the world ” it was to give a review of the work
of a barrister which would serve as a valuable and com¬
plete survey of the profession. He spoke well, enthusi¬
astically, and at length on the subject, with a fund of
human understanding and a wit that made it possible to
listen to him with intense pleasure. One of the questions
asked of him by his non-legal friends was the inevitable
one that is put to all barristers. It runs: “How on
earth can you possibly put heart into the defence of a
man whom you know to be guilty ? ”

The answer, said Curtis, was extremely simple. He
never did. If a client came to him saying he was guilty
he would reply: “ I cannot put before a Court a defence
which I know to be untrue. But it is my duty to relate
any mitigating features there may be in your case in an
endeavour to induce the Judge to pass upon you a more
lenient sentence than he would otherwise do.”

Sometimes the client was thunderstruck and said: “ I
thought lawyers were there for me to tell them the truth,
and for them to get me out of my troubles.” But if in
spite of saying he was guilty, the client insisted on a plea
of “Not Guilty,” then Curtis told him he must.seek

214

WHEN CURTIS TALKED

another counsel. “ And if you wish to be defended on a
plea of Not Guilty,” he advised, “ don’t tell him you
are guilty.”

A complementary question equally inevitable was:
“But surely you, as a man of the world and not as a
barrister, don’t swallow all the stories you are told?”
Curtis would reply: “ It’s not our duty to judge the
man. It is our duty to see that he is not convicted unless
there is proper evidence against him. It is for the Court
to say whether or not he is guilty. To quote the best
simile, we are like taxis on a rank. We are merely hired
to put a client’s case before the Court, but of course we
must not knowingly allow the Court to be misled, we
being ourselves officers of the Court. It is not our duty
to invent a defence : we deal with the facts as we are told
them, but there are cases where a client is charged with
an offence which is complicated in Law, and there might
well be a doubt as to whether he has committed an offence
or not. Therefore, even if a client says he is guilty, we
are entitled to make a prosecution prove the case. In
order to effect this, we must plead ‘ Not Guilty ’ and
listen to the evidence. At the end we may submit that
there is no evidence to go to the jury that our client has
committed the offence, and if the Judge is with us, there
will be an acquittal. But if he is not with us, and decides
that the case must go to the jury, then we cannot be a
party to putting up a defence which we know to be
untrue. I should say: ‘ I call no evidence, m’Lord,’
and let the Judge sum up and the jury decide as to whether
the evidence has been sufficient.”

To some this sounded a strange exposition of a barrister’s

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duties, but Curtis claimed it was perfectly logical. “ Sup¬
pose,” he said, “ a man comes to me with a story of
irmocence, and I say to him—‘ Well, I don’t think I believe
your story and I am not prepared to put it before a Court.’
That man would be deprived of the services of the bar¬
rister he wanted to defend him solely because of my
personal opinion. I should indeed be taking to myself
the functions of a jury.”

This, then, was the simple test he applied, in order to
show the logic of the barrister’s position. He developed
that theme many times in his career, for the benefit of
members of the lay public who confessed that they had
always been confused by this point. Other matters of
which he used to talk were of greater interest to the
legal profession itself, and on these matters he had a
common-sense attitude that was of benefit to dozens of
young men who looked up to him as a kindly adviser.
When he called it the finest profession in the world he
did so with a personal knowledge of the risks and dis¬
advantages which cannot be excluded. “You are abso¬
lute master of yourself,” he said. “ You have no regular
office hours, and theoretically you can take your holidays
when you want them. But only theoretically. You must
be prepared to sacrifice or postpone a holiday at a moment’s
notice, and you are at the beck and call of a telephone.
Further, you are absolutely dependent upon your health,
for few people realize the physical strain of a day in Court,
consultations when you return to chambers in the late
afternoon, and long hours into the night when you are
reading up the next day’s work: one day of illness and
you are losing not only the work but the money. Other

216

WHEN CURTIS TALKED

people have to do your work, and a reputation for being
a doubtful starter is very hard to live down: but there
are days when a case falls through or a defendant is ill,
and you find yourself with an afternoon free. Those days
are as pleasant as afternoons stolen by a truant schoolboy
—far more exciting than holidays pre-arranged and long
thought over.”

Curtis himself had been very fortunate. He appreci¬
ated that he had received a number of complimentary
briefs from firms such as Freke Palmer as a result of his
father being already a magistrate. Many other young
men have waited for years for such briefs: there are a
thousand pathetically-briefless barristers in practice—many
of them with brilliant scholastic careers behind them,
who obtained their degrees at Oxford or Cambridge with
high honours ; but these complimentary briefs have their
disadvantage, for many people are apt to say that they
have been secured only because of the family name, and
in addition they come at a time when perhaps the young
barrister is less able to do the work than at any other
time in his career. The solicitor may have a great admira¬
tion for the family name: but, first and foremost, he
must consider his clients, and if they suffer materially,
the solicitor will find himself abandoned in favour of
another. “ Of course, it’s all a leap in the dark when
you come to the Bar,” said Curtis. “ But the Bar confers
the greatest prizes in the world. There is nothing that
is not within the reach of those who scale the heights
of the legal profession—a judgeship, the Lord Chief
Justiceship of England, the Lord Chancellorship, a Cabinet
position. Premiership, the Viceroyalty of India. For the

217

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not so-successful, County Court judgeships. Metropolitan
police court magistracies, and judgeships abroad and
in the colonies. Great prizes indeed, but only to be
acquired after years of hard work of the most exacting
kind. . . .”

Early in his career Curtis was given to understand that
for the asking he could have been made one of the Treasury
Counsel at the Old Bailey; that is to say, one of the
Counsel whom the Director of Public Prosecutions instructs
to present his cases. An income of nearly a thousand a
year is assured to a junior Treasury Counsel. That cer¬
tainly would have meant a great deal to Curtis in his
younger days. But with much trepidation he did not
enter for the post, since it would mean losing the greater
part of his defending practice. It was a most important
decision and, as it proved, a wise one. The leaders of
the Bar whose names are familiar to the public to-day
may have appeared in some of the more sensational criminal
cases, but they were not like Curtis, appearing every day
of their lives in criminal cases. Edward Marjoribanks
makes it quite plain, in the admirable biography of Marshall-
Hall, that his earnings at the Criminal Bar were a fraction
of his total income. He made the rest of his money in
the big cases in the Law Courts in the Strand.

In 19x4, a year after his father’s death, Curtis had refused
another tempting offer—that of the position of a Metro¬
politan magistrate. The post carried with it an income
of £1,500 a year, and with two children and his wife’s
income, Curtis could have been comfortably established
for the rest of his life. He would never have lived to
enjoy the increase in salary up to £2,000 a year as it is

218

WHEN CURTIS TALKED

now, and it is curious to look back on the possibility of
his sitting as a magistrate.

Members of the Old Bailey Bar, before re-building took
place in 1907, were slightly looked down upon by their
brethren in the High Courts in the Strand. Their methods
of advocacy were not always in accordance with the highest
traditions of the Bar, but with the modernization of the
actual building there came also an improvement in the
standard of advocacy and etiquette. Men like Horace
Avory, Charles Gill, Richard Muir, Travers Humphreys,
and Curtis, were leaders of that change, and to-day the
Old Bailey Bar and its members enjoy an equal distinction
with others of their craft. But still there persisted for
many years an air of superiority among young men who
knew no better, and who affected to despise the Criminal
Bar. This drove Curtis to anger. “ How is it possible
for anybody to be interested in the least,” he said, “ as
to whether one Company pays another Company a sum
of money ? That is the bulk of the litigation in the High
Courts. But at the Criminal Bar we see life: we are
defending or prosecuting people who might go to prison
or who might be hanged. The liberty of the subject,
life and death—these are everyday matters to us. We
deal with real human stuff—the drama of life itself: there
is no satisfaction like that of winning a case in which
there are concerned men and women of flesh and blood.”

Indeed, one of his greatest treasures was a bundle of
some four or five hundred letters from clients whom he
had defended: all expressed their thanks and their
appreciation.

But Curtis came across advocates who said in a superior

219

CURTIS

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■way: “I don’t care for coming to the Old Bailey and
I shan’t come again.”

“ Well, I hope you keep your promise,” Curtis would
reply. Sure enough at the next Session, provided the
opportunity and the fee were there, these “ superior ”
advocates would make an appearance.

Curtis took a pride and a real delight in every detail
of the old-fashioned ceremonial and custom of the Law.
Just as he enjoyed the cosmopolitan life of a great res¬
taurant, the activity and the efficiency of a railway station,
and the camaraderiejDf the House of Commons smoking-
room, so he enjoyed the formal invitations of the sheriffs
of the City of London when the Central Criminal Court
was in session, and the hospitality of the Bar Mess when
he was on a circuit. He was an ardent supporter of
every survival of that etiquette which dated from another
age, when transport through England was more of a
problem. The circuit system ^survived from the days
when the judges and counsel set out from London on
horseback to various circuit towns to dispense Justice.

Those members of the Bar who had influence in any
particular county would join the circuit of which that
'c oun t y was a part. Hence it came about that lawyers
banded themselves together into circuits to deal with the
various areas of the country. Owing to the difficulties of
transport they were rarely interchangeable. It is for that
reason that, even to-day, a defendant who is due to appear
at an Assize town cannot brief a barrister outside the
circuit without paying a special fee of ioo gui neas fo r a.
le ade r, or 50 for a junior, in addition to the brief fee which
is rarely less than a similar amount. Curtis was frequently

WHEN CURTIS TALKED

briefed “ off his circuit ”—one of the greatest compliments
that can be paid to a barrister. He became guest of the
Mess of the circuit and, far from the strain of London,
free from the worry of arranging the next day’s plans,
he was able to spend restful periods at his hotel and enjoy
the experience of making new friends. He afterwards
repaid the hospitality shown him by sending a case of
champagne to the Bar Mess, as is the custom. He travelled
many thousands of miles throughout England in the
course of these special briefs; they were some of the
most enjoyable experiences of his legal career.

In his first chambers, Curtis had for his clerk Sam
Humphreys, a great character at the Bar, at one time a
judge at the Dunmow Flitch Trial, and well known as
a .mimic who used to imitate Curtis behind his back almost
to perfection. He was followed by John Winckworth,
who had been clerk to Sir Richard Muir. Winckworth
died shortly after entering his service, and he was followed
by Hollis, former chief clerk to Sir Travers Humphreys,
who had been elevated to the Bench. When Curtis left
Plowden Buildings, where he had been for over twenty
years, to go over the road to No. x. Temple Gardens, he
and Hollis remained close personal friends to the end of
Curtis’s life.

Hollis had been well known as one of the best clerks
in the Temple. Curtis was fortunate to have secured his
services, for a clerk can go a long way towards forging
the success of his principal, just as a bad clerk can con¬
tribute to his ruination. Thejderk is the tactful, intelligent
and confidential adviser and friend. There is no known
training for such a job, although the duties demanded of

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him aie such that require all the virtues. He must be
an expert organizer, and a courteous and methodically-
minded guardian of his principal’s interests. It is perhaps
not surprising, therefore, that many barristers’ clerks make
more money than some barristers, and in the Temple
to-day there are several members of that efficient pro¬
fession who have large houses of their own and luxurious
motor-cars. By usage, no solicitor can approach a barristei
except through his clerk. Theoretically, the barrister is
only “ rewarded by an honorarium ” and no discussion
takes place about the fee between barrister and solicitor.
It is only when the clerk has dispensed with these mun¬
dane matters that a conference is arranged between the
barrister, the solicitor and the client.

But this is only a part of the clerk’s work. Often enough
he has several barristers in his chambers whose work he
must arrange: he must communicate with the clerks of
various Courts to ensure that his principal’s programme
for the day’s work shall not clash; he must ask many
favours of Court officials, and must be certain that while
asking for fees which reflect glory on his master, he does
not drive away solicitors with their clients’ purses as their
first consideration. Small wonder, then, that a good clerk
is a prize beyond purchase: and that from all the junior
clerks who begin work in chambers by answering the
telephone, there arises only now and again a genius who
can claim all the virtues, and call himself the most
valuable adviser of a famous Counsel.

The most characteristic picture of Curtis that remains,
is the memory of him standing in the Mess room of the
Old Bailey surrounded by young barristers. Curtis him-

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WHEN CURTIS TALKED

self was invariably invited to lunch with the Sheriffs and
the Judges. But after lunch and before the Court sat
again, he would walk upstairs to join his less-privileged
brethren; with a cigar alight, he stood leaning against
a trolley in the middle of the room, where he drank coffee.
He was the centre of amusement; good stories were
always told in the circle around that imposing and im¬
maculate figure. The long and expensive cigar would
illustrate his points : and as time grew short before the
resumption of the Court proceedings, Curtis puffed the
more appreciatively. At the last possible moment he
would walk down to the Court, pause a moment at the
door, take a last regretful puff before throwing away his
cigar, and stride impressively into Court to do battle
again.

He timed these entrances perfectly. At the beginning
of a case his clerk would enter carrying his brief, a number
of coloured pencils, and a little box containing Sir Henry’s
favourite lozenges, and place them on the desk nearest
to the dock. A moment after he entered there would
be a stir in Court, and men and women would nudge
each other and whisper his name.

These young men who listened to stories, most of
them against himself, learnt also a great deal from his
methods. In the old days, some prosecuting counsel
at the Old Bailey were a bullying and loud-voiced lot.
But Curtis was a member of that company which changed
the methods of the cross-examination and established a
new reputation for the Old Bailey. * f He did not believe
in shock tact i cs; he believed in putting a witness at his
ease, sometimes too much at his ease. The witness would

Z23

see rise in front of him the figure of a man whose reputa¬
tion he already knew. But in a few moments he would
lose his fear and his guardedness under the influence of
a few gently-spoken questions. Curtis wanted him to
think “ Here is a nice, kind gentleman, much kinder thari
the other man who has been asking questions on the
other side; he only wants me to tell what I know of
the case.” The answers would come quite freely, but
after a little time that suave inquiring voice would har d en,
and the witness would realize that an all-important question
was coming to which there could be, as a natural con¬
sequence, only one reply, the reply he least wished to
give.

“ The art of cross-examination,” said Curtis, “ is not
necessarily to know what to ask, but to know what not
to ask. It is quite easy to ask a long series of questions
in an angry tone, and think it is getting you somewhere.
The real art is never to ask a question unless you know
the answer beforehand. Sometimes you have to take a
chance, but even then it is often possible by careful approach
to get an idea of the answer before the question is asked.
And it may even happen that you decide after all to move
to another line of inquiry. If you can’t catch a witness
out in half an hour or so, you. never will. You can
cross-examine a truthful witness all day, and the only
result will be that he is telling the truth more obviously
at the end of your efforts than when you began. There
is also the common mistake of putting one question too
many in order to emphasize a good point: you should
be satisfied with nearly establishing your point: if you
try to obtain a more emphatic answer, you may find the

224

WHEN CURTIS TALKED

witness has had time to think and you will get an answer
that will destroy all the good you have achieved.”

In Sir Henry’s entire career, the nearest he ever came
to an open disagreement with a prominent Judge was
during the hearing of the Hayley Morriss trial. Curtis
was briefed for Mrs. Morriss, the pretty young wife of
the owner of Pippingford Park, who had married her
employer—she had formerly been his housekeeper—shortly
before the case. They were to be tried together, but
on- the 12th of December, 1925, Curtis, having received
certain instructions, stood up to ask Mr. Justice Avory
for a postponement until the next sessions. Last August,
he said, his client became in a certain condition, and her
medical advisers were sent for, since there were symptoms
of a miscarriage. “ She is in a serious condition of
health, and her doctor will tell the Court that it would be
impossible for her to stand her trial for three weeks at
least.”

But when the doctor gave evidence, he was closely
questioned by Sir Edward Marshall-Hall, who appeared
for the Crown. Did the doctor know that he was only
called in after the committal to the Assizes ? Did he know
the legal advisers ? And the Judge asked if he knew that
Mrs. Morriss had recently been seen in the town? Sir
Edward wanted an independent examination of Mrs.
Morriss, and the Judge agreed. “ I will then consider
whether the trial ought to proceed ...”

Hayley Morriss, who was anxious that the trial should
not be postponed if it could be helped, was defended by
Curtis-Bennett’s old friends, Roland Oliver and St. John
Hutchinson. On the following Monday, when the names

225 Q

CURTIS

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of both the defendants were called, Mrs. Morriss was
present. She had walked over from the local hotel, pale
and weakly.

“ Do you wish to hear the report of the medical expert
appointed to examine her ? ” asked Marshall-Hall.

The Judge: “The fact that she has surrendered is
the best answer to any question on that subject. She is
here.”

Sir Henry was on his feet. “ Before the trial I wish
you to hear the medical evidence of two of her doctors,”
he said. “ I submit it is not a question whether or not
this woman could be brought to the Court, but whether
or not she is in a fit condition to undergo a long trial
and a considerable period in the witness-box. On those
two questions, which I submit the Court will have to
determine, I certainly require to call the medical men.”

This was a strong way of putting his point. The Judge
was very stern and emphatic as he replied: “ I decline
to hear the evidence. In my opinion there has been a
deliberate attempt already to deceive the Court in this
case, and I am not sure that there may not have been
something worse—conspiracy to defeat the ends of justice.
The defendant is here, and the case must now proceed.
If she requires medical attention she will receive it quite
as well here as if she were not in this Court.”

Curtis had difficulty in concealing his indignation.

“ In view of the circumstances, I submit that evidence
should go before the Judge as to the condition of the
girl. A medical man of repute has stated on oath that
in his view it would be dangerous to the health of this
girl to attend and stand her trial.”

226

"WHEN CURTIS TALKED

The Judge; “ Sir Henry, I have decided this matter.

I must decline to hear you further.”

Sir Henry : “ Your Lordship will at any rate allow me,
on her behalf, to protest against that being done without
the evidence which I have in my possession being
produced.”

The Judge: “ I have heard your protest. I must
assume that you were deceived by the instructions you
received. I have not been equally deceived. There is
an end to the question.”

Sir Henry: “ May I say that neither Sir Travers

Humphreys (his junior) nor myself consider that we
were deceived by the evidence which was put before
us ? ”

This, then, was the dramatic opening to a case which
attracted large crowds of would-be spectators to struggle
for admission. Curtis was never able to call that evidence,
and the young wife stood her trial, a wan and slim figure
in the dock.

And again the castigating tongue of Mr. Justice Avory
was heard when he summed up. Of Mrs. Morriss he
said: “I am still satisfied that she was, if she desired,
fit to give evidence on oath.”

Curtis bitterly resented the way he had been treated
by the Judge. He believed that someone had falsely
told Mr. Justice Avory that Mrs. Morriss or her advisers
were anxious to find a reason for taking the case away
from that Judge, and that Mrs. Morriss had been seen
in the town recently. It must be clear that something
of the sort happened, for it is astonishing that Mr. Justice
Avory, who knew the worth and was fond of both Sir

227

Henry and Sir Travers Humphreys, should insinuate, if
not actually say, that such distinguished members of the
Bar had been party to a false application. It was not a
false application, and Counsel had come down specially
, to make it the week before the trial started so as to give
the Court fair warning. Had it been a false application,
it would have been much easier to have appeared on the
day of the trial without Mrs. Morriss.

One of Sir Henry’s most remarkable murder cases was
one in which the accused, while in gaol awaiting trial,
wrote, a. letter to his sweetheart describing how he had
committed the crime. This was told during the trial of
two soldiers, Ia n M axwell Stewart and John Lincoln, for
the murder of Edward Richards, a commercial traveller,
at Trowbridge, on Christmas Eve." Both had pleaded not
guilty at the police court proceedings. But while in
prison, Lincoln had asked if he might write a letter.
He did not trouble to read the prison regulations, which
were to the effect that unsealed letters were read by the
officials. He gave his letter to a warder with the envelope
open. The authorities read a full description of how he
had committed the crime.

Curtis was appearing for Stewart, and at the close of
the case for the prosecution, applied successfully for the
discharge of his client. Both men had been engaged
in the burglary during which the unfortunate Richards
was shot dead, and counsel for the Crown maintained
that if Stewart knew that his friend was armed, then
Stewart too was guilty of murder. The Judge, however,
agreed with Curtis that there was now no proof against
Stewart, and directed the jury to discharge him, though

2Z8

WHEN CURTIS TALKED

he was re-arrested on the charge of robbery with violence.
The next day the Crown offered no evidence on that
count, and he was again released, to be re-arrested on
another charge.

The murder was callous and futile, for one of the most
trivial reasons in the history of violence in this country.
For these two young soldiers, after drinking a consider¬
able amount of liquor on that ill-starred night, had entered
the house of Richards, where they thought there was
likely to be a large sum of money. Lincoln had a gun
and some ammunition. When they entered the house
they could find no money, but drank half a bottle of
brandy and left. As soon as they were outside, they
returned to fetch two botdes of beer. And according
to Lincoln’s letter, those two bottles of beer caused
the murder of Richards, who returned and surprised
them at that moment. Richards was armed. It is pos¬
sible that he fired first at the dim shape of the intruder
who was passing through a door; and as he fired, he
was killed by a blaze of rapid fire from his unseen assailant.
“ You have only to keep the trigger pressed and the
bullets fire automatically,” wrote Lincoln.

His counsel, while protesting at the conduct of the
prison authorities in omitting to warn Lincoln that his
unsealed letters would be read, could do little for him
save to draw from him the admission that he was drunk
at the time of the murder.

“Drunkenness, or the effect of liquor, is no defence
whatever in a case of this kind,” said the Judge, and the
jury took only fifteen minutes in which to come to a
decision of “ Guilty.”

229

CURTIS

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> >

A curious incident occurred before the case. Stewart’s
father was said to be well known in the theatrical pro¬
fession, and attempts were made to collect money for a
defence fund with which to brief Curtis. When, how¬
ever, a famous actress was giving a donation to an equally
well-known man in a restaurant in the Strand, the hotel
detective stopped him receiving the money. But the
money was collected without any other obstruction, and
Curtis received a special fee, since this case, heard at the
Wiltshire Assizes, was off his circuit.

230

CHAPTER XVI
“Hyde Park Cases”

B y this time Curtis had found that he had over-estimated
his strength when he endeavoured to combine his
duties in the House of Commons with his legal work.
There was also an added duty to be performed as deputy
chairman of the Esses Quarter Sessions. The Chairman
at that time was Mr. Collingwood Hope, K.C., and apart
from him there was no other magistrate with outstanding
legal training.

From the first time he had taken his seat at the Quarter
Sessions it was obvious that this was but a step towards
his cherished ambition of the Recordership of London;
every barrister practising at Chelmsford wished his cases
to come before Curtis, to the possible annoyance of the
Chairman in the other Court. Therefore, since he had a
large licensing practice as well as criminal work in the
county, his acceptance of the post involved considerable
personal sacrifice.

But when he next saw his medical adviser it was to
receive an ultimatum on the grounds of health; either he
must give up politics or give up the Bar. His answer was
obvious. Politics woul d go by the board. /* •-
He had determined, "however, to stay on in the House
of Commons during the lifetime of the existing Govern¬
or

CURTIS

«<

>»

ment. But while he was still deliberating, a bombshell fell
into the domestic circle of his life, and made it imperative
for him" to come to a decision. His wife intimated that
sheTwas' going to divorce him. '

They had been married for twenty-three years, and
their children were aged 22 and 16. Curtis had, how¬
ever, put himself in a position where divorce proceedings
could be brought against him, as many other men have
done before him. One day he received an urgent telephone
message from a well-known firm of solicitors, who
requested him to see them at once on a matter of the
highest importance. Curtis had no idea what this could
be; it was unusual for a solicitor to ask a barrister to go
to his office. For a moment he imagined that another fat
brief was on the way, but on a moment’s reflection he
realized that if this were so the solicitor would be visiting
him.

He emerged from that office shaken and ill, and weighed
down with worry. For perhaps the first time in his life
he was powerless and helpless, for he knew that he could
not answer the evidence which had been collected against
him. He saw complete ruin ahead socially and financially,
but when he could think logically his paramount feeling
was one of bitter regret that he should lose a wife who had
worked, with him. and helped him through the early days.;
had built for him a home which ran upon oiled wheels, and
had eased him in moments of anxiety with loyalty, love
and affection.

Several efforts were made by friends of the family to
smooth the matter over, but without avail. And when he
came to consider the more material aspects of his future,

232

“ HYDE PARK CASES”

he saw only the blackest outlook. His wife had money and
Curtis had never thought it necessary to save much himself.
He had not contemplated retiring for some years, and by
that time, with perhaps the coveted Recordership, he could
retire from the rough-and-tumble of the Criminal Bar and
enjoy years of comparative leisure. But there was a further
evil which he feared would even prevent him from maintain¬
ing the high level of his earnings. Before him there had
been barristers who had passed through the Divorce Court;
but there was none who had done so at the height of his
career. Curtis feared that his practice was so personal,
and that solicitors, perhaps, were so old-fashioned, that his
practice would at least be halved. He feared that he must
say farewell to that hope of a judgeship; he knew that
people would say he could not receive that honour because
he had been through the Divorce Court. Fears that he
would not be able to leave his family in a comfortable
position assailed him, and for a time he was a man harried
by doubts, in an agony of mind.

This, at any rate, had decided his political career. Quite
legitimately, he applied for the Chiltern Hundreds on the
grounds of ill-health. The coming divorce had increased
ten-fold the nervous strain under which he was suffering,
and it was with complete frankness that he told the Con¬
servative Central Office the immediate reason why he had
decided to resign.

It is perhaps not surprising that his first reaction was a
desire to forget the coming disaster. He went abroad for
a long motor tour, but now even this familiar and infallible
panacea failed him, and he came back still convinced that
magistrates and juries and judges would think the less of

235

CURTIS

t e

> >

him because he had been the “ guilty patty ” in a divorce
action. He sold his favourite Bentley in a fit of panic, and
flung himself into his work. None of his clients knew that
their brilliant defender was himself in an agony of mind ,
a man who felt himself destined for complete ruin.

But the crisis he feared was less serious than he had
imagined. Curtis felt that everyone he met was talking
about him, but in actual fact his friends were most sym¬
pathetic, and the press was most generous in making only
brief mention of the proceedings in Court. His misery
was further lightened by his receiving the high honour of
being made a Bencher of his Inn. He was called to the
Bench on November 17,1926, the same night that his son
was called to the Bar; and Mr. Justice Astbury, Treasurer
of the Tnn, made particular reference to this curious coin¬
cidence. Lady Curtis-Bennett was in the gallery watching
the proceedings, and but for the tragedy which over¬
shadowed them, the occasion would have been one of
immense pleasure.

The following year his practice did indeed fall to £7,000
—a considerable drop from over £10,000, and a matter
of some importance to Curtis, since he had always hitherto
known that his budget would be increased by his wife’s
money. He still feared that a man who had been divorced
would never be a Judge, and that it might be impossible for
those who had the power to grant him the position. He
feared that he would have to continue working for the rest
of his life, never to retire except on a meagre income. He
even feared that some defendant or witness might refer
to his divorce in Court. But little by litde his practice
returned, and with the encouragement of friends, though

234

“hyde park cases”

he was an older man as the result of his experience, Curtis
came to realize that the future held some prospect other
than ruin.

In September, 1927, Curtis was in yet another “ street
offence ” case. A schoolmaster, and a former Oxford Blue,
was convicted of being a rogue and vagabond and of
“ persistently importuning,” and was sentenced to three
months by Sir Chartres Biron at Bow Street. Curtis
appeared with Mr. J. D. Cassels and Mr. Eustace Fulton
at the London Sessions, and secured a magnificent reversal
of the conviction. The police evidence had been un¬
corroborated, and Curtis soon had a police witness contra¬
dicting himself on the time factor. “ There would appear
to be nothing more dangerous than for an unsuspecting
person to go for a walk by himself in London,” said Curtis
in his address to the Court.

The Court quashed the conviction, and on Sir Henry’s
application gave costs to the appellant. The case received
additional prominence in the press because that very week
a conviction on an almost similar charge had been reversed.
Again this was the uncorroborated word of a single police¬
man, and the case had been heard by Mr. Mead. “ How
many men can spend £300 and more in defending their
good name ? There are scores of cases of which the general
public never hear,” said the press.

In October of that year Curtis again successfully appealed
against the conviction of a clerk. The sentence had been
three months’ hard labour, but at the appeal the police
evidence as to identification was torn to pieces.

The public agitation, however, came to a head during
the next year after Sir Henry had successfully represented

235

Sir Leo Chiozza Money, former M.P. and Government
servant, against a charge of indecency in Hyde Park. Sir
Leo had been arrested with a young friend named Irene
Savage, who was not, however, required to go into the
witness-box. The magistrate, Mr. Cancellor, said he bad
heard enough, and discharged both defendants. “ In cases
of this sort the police ought to take every opportunity of
getting corroborative evidence,” said the magistrate. “In
my opinion, in this case, that opportunity was not grasped.
... I cannot help thinking that the police officers should
send their reports forthwith to headquarters. If that had
been done, I think this case would never have been brought,
and a great deal of pain would have been spared the
defendants.”

Curtis obtained costs against the police, and it was
apparent that public agitation would only be satisfied by a
strict inquiry. Shortly afterwards the Home Secretary
called for a full report, and the question was asked in
Parliament: “ . . . whether in view of the results of recent
prosecutions in such cases, the Home Secretary is satisfied
that sufficient care is taken to establish the trustworthiness
of the evidence before the charge is made ? ”

Part of the statement by Sir William Joynson-Hicks, the
Home Secretary, made people howl with laughter. “It
is not illegal for any young member of the community to
take any equally young lady to Hyde Park, to sit in the park,
and it is not illegal to salute her with a chaste embrace,” he
said. Cartoons showed the chaste embrace taking place,
with Sir William as Cupid making a careful inspection with
the aid of two constables with flash-lights. But the Savage
case as such paled into insignificance beside a new sensation

236

“HYDE PARK CASES”

that arose from Sir Henry’s much publicized fight for the
honour of the politician and the girl. On May 15,
two weeks after the dismissal of the case, she was invited
to visit Scotland Yard. She was there questioned by Chief
Inspector Collins as to what had occurred with Sir Leo
Money in the Park. As a consequence of what she said
happened to her at Scotland Yard, a Parliamentary tribunal
was set up to inquire into her allegations. The Home
Secretary undertook that the State would bear the whole
cost and expenses of her appearance before the tribunal.
Miss Savage briefed Patrick Hastings, Curtis-Bennett and
Walter Frampton, while Norman Birkett led for the police.

Many people have since been confused by the fact that
whereas it was a Miss Irene “ Savage ” who was charged
with Sir Leo Money, the hearings before the tribunal were
always known as the “ Savidge Inquiry.” Her real name
was Irene Savidge, but when the police had first charged
her she found her name was spelt in the more usual way.
She therefore felt there could be no criticism if she kept
to that version of the name. During the first day of the
inquiry. Sir Patrick Hastings outlined his case for the girl.
He said that, following a number of questions in the House
of Commons, the Director of Public Prosecutions had
ins tructed the police to take a further' statement of the
circumstances of Miss Savidge’s acquaintance with Sir Leo
Money. “ At Scotland Yard,” said Sir Patrick, “ her
examination seemed to have been directed not so much to
finding out whether there was any case against the police,
as to have been deliberately designed to get something
from Miss Savidge so that there would be no prosecution
of the police. I shudder to think what might have hap-

237

pened if Miss Savidge had been the daughter of someone
in a different social sphere.”

According to the girl, continued Sir Patrick, Inspector
Collins had been by turns threatening and affectionate, and
he had suggested that she was muddled with wine and
that Sir Leo had done something without her knowledge.
That could only be designed to quash the chance of a pro¬
secution of the two policemen, although Sir Henry, at the
police court, had stated that it was not his case to maW
any charge of perjury against the police.

Miss Savidge gave evidence for a day and a half. She
was a perky and courageous witness, and when Mr. Birkett
pressed her during a long cross-examination she always had
her reply:

“I say that you asked for a cigarette,” suggested Mr.
Birkett.

“And I say that you are wrong,” replied the pretty
22-year-old girl.

“ If you have been done a grievous wrong and Parliament
wants to put it right, why should you not go and tell the
truth?”

“ It wasn’t Parliament that asked me—but Scotland
Yard.”

In her evidence in chief she said that Inspector Collins
at first threatened her with the words : “ Look here, Miss
Savidge, we have you here to tell us the truth, and if you
don’t tell the truth you and Sir Leo Money will suffer
severely. Do you realize that these two police officers have
the best of characters and also have their wives to think
of?”

Inspector Collins gave the tribunal some interesting

238

“HYDE PARK CASES ”

details of the methods of Scotland Yard when witnesses
were being questioned, but he denied emphatically that they
ever practised anything in the nature of Third Degree.

In their final speeches Mr. Birkett and Sir Patrick both
emphasized the gravity of the issues involved, and Sir Patrick
even went so far as to say that the police would never get
another young girl into Scotland Yard. He commented
on the " horrors of cross-examination,” and the outrageous
methods by which she had been induced to accompany
the police officers. Not the least interesting side-light was
contained in a statement by Sir Archibald Bodkin, the
Director of Public Prosecutions, who spoke of Sir Leo and
Miss Savidge “ . . . having very foolishly been in Hyde
Park.” “ Why very foolishly ? ” asked the public. Was
it foolish to sit on a bench because of the risk of being
pounced upon by policemen and falsely charged with im¬
proper conduct ?

The Report of the Savidge Tribunal was published on
July 13. Briefly, the majority report was of the opinion
that the police officers concerned with taking Miss Savidge
to Scotland Yard were not to blame : “ Because, and only
because, they were following what is apparently the estab¬
lished practice at Scotland Yard.” But that was not to say
that they approved of that practice in this particular case.
They further stated that they were satisfied that Miss
Savidge was not intimidated: that the alleged demonstration
did not take place, and that the remark complained of had
not been made. No lack of propriety had been shown.
Finally, the report stated that the tribunal was unable to
accept Miss Savidge’s statements on matters in which there
was a conflict of evidence between her and Inspector

239

CURTIS

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9 9

Collins, “ and we acquit him of any impropet conduct
during the taking of the statements.”

This was the majority report signed by Sir John Eldon
Bankes and Mr. J. J. Withers, M.P., but Mr. H. B. Lees-
Smith, M.P., presented a minority report in which he
censured the police officers and gave it as his opinion that
Miss Savidge was misled as to the nature of the inquiry
she would undergo. “ In the witness-box she gave the
impression of a frank, simple and somewhat child-like
witness whose evidence remained unshaken under cross-
examination. The police officers did not give the im¬
pression that they were equally frank in their evidence, but
denied both the probable and the improbable with equal
force.”

His report went on to say that a number of questions
should not have been asked, and that her replies were
misrepresented. He considered Inspector Collins respon¬
sible. “ Great perils to private citizens and to civil liberty
have been revealed by Miss Savidge’s experience, and there
is need for an investigation into still wider fields of police
administration and control.”

The ultimate result of the whole matter was that the
questioning of private individuals who might later be wit¬
nesses or even defendants was put under much stricter
control.

Curtis made another great fight in September, 1928, when
he appeared in defence of two London constables who
were charged with conspiring to proffer a false charge
against “ Helen Adele ” and to pervert the course of
Justice. The case was extremely involved. Helen Adele,
who admitted in Court that she had not given her correct

240

“htde park cases”

surname, and whose real name was not asked for by either
side, was an unfortunate who had been charged at Clerken-
well Police Court with using abusive language outside a

garage. She had been arrested by P.C.s C-and S-.

Their evidence was that she was making a disturbance and
refused to go away. It was four o’clock in the morning,
and as a consequence of her behaviour the officers arrested
her. Both the policemen gave evidence, but when she
came into the witness-box she told an extraordinary story.
She denied the allegations, and said the officers had faked
the charge against her because earlier that night she had

refused the improper suggestions made to her by C-.

Often enough Helen Adele did not possess two shillings to
pay for a bed; when this happened she was in the habit
of going to a certain taxi-cab garage and sleeping the night
in one of the cabs which had been left there to be washed.
This was done with the connivance of the garage staff, and
when she had kicked off her shoes and made herself comfort¬
able, Helen frequently sent one of the staff out for a cup
of tea. Long after midnight on the night in question she
had made her way to the garage. She said she had opened
the door of a new cab which had frequendy served as her

bedroom, and inside had seen C-, his tunic off and his

helmet on the floor, preparing to go to sleep. C-had

invited her into the cab and she had wearily consented.
But when the policeman began to make improper sugges¬
tions to her, she resisted. Tea had been brought to them,

and while the door was open she discovered that C-’s

friend S- was in another cab. Both of them were

supposed to be on duty and, after a heated argument, C-

said to her: “You are not getting out of this-cab,

241

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CURTIS

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»>

putting in a squeak ovet us.” He also said that he would
charge her for shouting in the road.

Mr. Dummett, the magistrate, discharged Adele and
ordered that a full inquiry should be made into her accusa¬
tions. The result was that on September 13 Sir Henry,
Mr. St. John Hutchinson and Mr. Derek Curtis-Bennett,
appeared at the Old Bailey to defend the policemen, and Mr.
Percival Clarke, Mr. G. D. Roberts and Mr. Anthony
Hawke appeared for the Director of Public Prosecutions.

The policemen had sworn that the girl’s story was untrue,
and although Curtis was quiet in his cross-examination,
Helen Adele, during a three-and-a-half-hour’s ordeal of
answering his probing questions, had to admit many strange
secrets of her pathetic career. At the end she said: “ I do
not know what I am talking about.” Curtis had con¬
fronted her with written statements which she had to admit
were untruths. And for the defence he promised a row
of witnesses who would speak for the good character of the
prisoners.

The most prominent witness was the sergeant on the
beat, who said that at the time when, according to Helen'
Adele, they were in the garage, he had actually seen them
together. And Curtis cleverly turned round to his advan¬
tage a point that seemed to be against P.C. S-. Helen

Adele had said that she had had relations with S-- on

many occasions: “I suggest that is very important in
favour of the constables,” said Sir Henry. “ Is it conceiv¬
able, if that were true, that S-would have made a false

charge against a woman who could so easily ruin him in the
police force and destroy his domestic happiness ? ” He
ridiculed the testimony of the prosecution witnesses. One

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“HYDE PARK CASES ”

of these was a car-washer who had confessed to having
perjured hims elf in the Police Court: another was the boy
who brought the tea—and who admitted that he was
frightened of the police. “ You are asked to convict two
members of the police force on the word of Helen Adele,
plus that of a self-confessed perjurer,” he said. He put
the constables in the witness-box, but Mr. Clarke, in cross-
examination, made very strong points against them when
he established that the noise for which they had arrested
Adele was heard by nobody else in the neighbourhood.
The sergeant was asked how it was that he marked the time
on that particular night when he saw the constables on the
beat. He replied that it was shortly before he himself went
to the station for his refreshment. The prosecution
pounced on that, and suggested that, in point of fact,
he had not been to the station for his refreshment that
night. He had no proof; and the allegation was put
forward that since he was a representative of the men
on the Disciplinary Board, he had perjured himself to save
the policemen.

Curtis made one of the best speeches of his career in
defence of the prisoners. “ It is an amazing story in many
ways. I doubt whether any jury has heard of a more
amazing story—-because of the nature of the charge—
because of the character of the witness—and because of the
suggestions Mr. Clarke has thought right to make against
police officers in general. . . . Helen Adele told a story
which was untrue in many ways. ... It is said sometimes
that the public are at the mercy of the police, but do not
forget the police are also very much at the mercy of the
public. I doubt whether even in the Army there is any

243

supervision so constant and strict as in the Metropolitan
Police Force. For if the conditions of the Force are such
as have been suggested in this case, it is far worse than
any anti-police fanatic has ever suggested, for it has been
said that constables are perjurers and leave their beats at
any time and for any time; that their sergeants are prepared
to perjure for them; and that sergeants do not even go
round their beats in the rain. . . . There is a limit to the
number of coincidences that take place every twenty-four
hours. If this story is true, these men ought to suffer, but
if it is untrue, how much at the mercy of the underworld
will the police force of London become.”

Certainly there has seldom been a case in which such
diametrically opposing versions of incidents on the same
date have been put forward. The prosecution now sug¬
gested that the sergeant, whose evidence was all important,
had not made a mistake in saying he had seen them on the
beat, but had agreed to help a comrade rather than help this
poor girl. “ You have to do your duty,” said Mr. Clarke,
“ taking care not to discredit a great force.”

But when Mr. Justice Humphreys summed up, he would
have none of these suggestions that the reputation of the
police force was at stake. A verdict of “ Guilty ” would be
no condemnation of the force as a whole. If anything,
it would show that members of the force had succeeded in
bringing to Justice two men unworthy to be members of
it. . . . “ Perjury and foul perjury has been committed

in this court. ... I think you will agree that if this case
depended on the evidence of Helen Adele alone, one would
say it was not safe to convict. I am not referring to the
fact that the wretched girl is either a prostitute or something

244

“HYDE PARK CASES’’

near it; it is not a question of morality, and I hope most of
us feel more pity than blame.”

The summing-up had lasted two and a half hours, and
Curtis had lost his case. A verdict of “ Guilty ” was
returned, and the policemen were sent to imprisonment in
the second division for eighteen months.

Here was yet another in the long list of police scandals,
or allegations of police scandals, in which Curtis had
appeared. He himself had very decided views about the
conduct and honesty of the police. But he sensed with a
degree of concern that the public attitude to the force was
changing. Confidence was waning, and regrettably there
was a large section of the public prepared to go to any
extremes, even to striking a blow against individuals in the
force as well as the system.

M5

CHAPTER XVII
Strange Cases

I n November, 1928, Curtis was briefed to appear for
San Dwe, a young Burmese elephant-keeper at the Lon¬
don Zoo, who was charged with the murder of another
native elephant attendant, in a fit of jealousy over the care
of a sacred white elephant from Burma.

There was something of Eastern mysticism and mytho¬
logy in this bizarre jealousy of one humble resident of
London against another. San Dwe and Said Ali slept in
the same room at the Tapir House at the Zoo. Like many
of his race. Said Ali hoarded his money, and from the tips
earned from parents for taking their children for a ride on
the sacred elephant he had amassed a considerable fortune
of over £100. The elephant had come from Burma.
There was some talk of an ancient myth that presaged
disaster to all concerned with the animal when it had left
its native land. That prophecy was tragically fulfilled;
“ for one night San Dwe rose from his bed and struck
his friend eight times on the head with a sledge-hammer with
a ferocity that was beyond belief,” said counsel for the
Crown. He did not touch the money that was concealed
under Said Ali’s mattress; but he left the house by the
window, and in a hysterical condition he told the police
that four men had entered their room and killed his friend.

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STRANGE CASES

Curtis called no evidence in San Dwe’s defence, but
simply stated that the case had not been proved, and in a
short speech said that the condition in ■which his client was
found—“ terror-stricken, foaming at the mouth like a
demented mad man . . —was not consistent with his

having been the coldly-calculating murderer. Mr. Justice
Swift invited him to produce evidence of insanity, but he
only drew attention to the state of his client’s mind. San
Dwe was found guilty and sentenced to death, but during
King George’s illness the first document signed by Queen
Mary as a Member of the Council of State was the reprieve
of San Dwe. Curtis had helped to draw up the petition for
reprieve; he had thus helped to modify that strangely
verified prediction of Buddhist monks who said that evil
results would follow the journey of a sacred white elephant
from Rangoon to Regent’s Park.

Over Christmas there was a great weight on his mind.
Early in the new year he would have to appear in the most
serious of the cases connected with the morale of the
police. He had been briefed by Sergeant Goddard to
defend him against a charge of conspiracy with Mrs. Kate
Meyrick and Luigi Ribuffi.

Goddard, who had been twenty-six years in the police
force, had been appointed a special plain-clothes officer to
examine into complaints against night-clubs in the West
End of London. He had personally superintended over a
hundred raids on clubs, and had been commended many
timpR for his industry. The work was difficult, for the
police had to make sure that no hint of their intentions came
to the ears of the proprietors of undesirable clubs, and often
enough, when they made their sudden swoops upon cellars

247

CURTIS”

hU\k\ j%it ids and i t ont doors with barred windows, they
t'ound that the “ intelligence service” of the clubs had
made their visit fruitless. They knew that the Law
was he in defied ; hut it was becoming increasingly diffi¬
cult to obtain evidence. Clubs, houses of assignation
and disreputable cafes, all seemed to be able to obtain
advance information of the movements of the police.
Voting men were being fleeced and led into evil ways;
enormous profits were being made by men and women—
many of them foreigners—who sold whisky at 301-. a bottle
and more, and who employed the worst type of women to
lead visitors into spending small fortunes in the mistaken
belief that they were seeing the “Bohemian life” of
London.

In the autumn of 1928 anonymous letters were received
by Scotland Yard, suggesting that the reason why the police
could not put a stop to these practices was because there were
traitors in their own ranks. The letters mentioned one man
in particular—the man who was in chief control of the force
detailed to investigate complaints. “ G oddard has a
bqgutiful car and a large .hou se at Streatham,” read one
letter. “ Goddard has financed his brother in business.
Goddard not only accepts bribes, but has a financial interest
in the most notorious houses and clubs in London.”

Scotland Yard gave Goddard this letter, and asked him to
give an explanation. But first, independent investigations
had been made. In his reply, Goddard said that he had
been very thrifty for seventeen years, and had managed
to save a few hundred pounds. His wife had money of her
own, and in addition he had made a lot of money by
backing horses and by speculation in foreign exchanges.

248

STRANGE CASES

“ Then, no doubt,” said Chief Constable Wensley, “ you
will bring to Scotland Yard the private safes that you have
at Selfridges and at the Pall Mall Safe Deposit, and will let
us see what is inside them.”

Before him, they turned £470 worth of banknotes from
one safe, and £12,000 out of another. “I am ruined,”
said Goddard. The notes were traced back. It was found
that many of them had been in the possession of Mrs. Kate
Meyrick, the n otorious proprietress of the 43 Club in
Gerrard St reet, and others in the possession of Luigi
Ribuffi, the director of Victor’s Club in Leicester Square.
It was recalled that whenever complaints had come regard¬
ing the management of the 43 Club, Goddard had reported
that they were unfounded; the police, having suspicions
about his honesty, had made an independent raid; they had
found drinking going on after hours.

Curtis had a difficult case. Mr. Percival Clarke took
three days in which to outline the case for the prosecu¬
tion and produce his witnesses, among whom was the
junior detective who used to work with Goddard. Sir
Henry Maddocks, K.C., for Mrs. Meyrick, suggested that
one of the most outspoken of the anonymous letters, in
which it was said that Goddard had a financial interest in
a notorious resort of crooks and persons of ill-repute,
might well have been written by the police. Curtis,
however, did not contest the genuineness of the letters
so strongly as he presented the “ complete explanation ”
of Goddard for all the money found in his possession.
He put up a splendid defence, detailing an amazing run of
luck that Goddard had enjoyed both in gambling ventures
and in business. In the witness-box Goddard said that he

249

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had made over £7,000 on betting in the last fifteen years;
he had made £6,000 in seven years from a share in a music
publishing office, and part of the money found in the safe
deposit was on trust, and the property of his partner-
another source of riches had been a share of Wembley Rock
kiosks at the British Empire Exhibition, from which he had
made £6,000.

“ How much of the stuff would have to be sold to mat-p
that profit ? ” he was asked.

“ It cost me £68 a ton,” said Goddard, “ and we some¬
times worked for 10 d. in the shilling profit.”

“ Visitors to the Wembley Exhibition must have gone
about in a very sticky condition,” was the comment of Mr.
Justice Avory.

There was also a big source of profit in the foreign
exchange speculation, but in all these affairs Goddard was
unable to show accounts, either on his own behalf or from
the partners who duly came to Court to support his evidence,
under the examination of his counsel.

The other prisoners also lent weight to his denials. Mrs.
Meyrick, for instance, said that she was always exacdy the
reverse of friendly towards Goddard. He had reported
against her club on occasions, and since her imprisonment
there had been no occasion for her to bribe a police-officer,
for there had been no infringements of the Law. And
when Curtis, on the sixth day of the trial, stood up to
address the jury for his client, he was most emphatic that
there was a wide gulf between what the Crown had sought
to prove and what they had proved. “ The prosecution
has made suggestions without evidence,” he said. “A
man like Goddard might easily have been the victim of an

250

STRANGE CASES

anonymous letter-writer. Goddard has explained how he
came by the money; was it likely that he would store bank¬
notes that could be proved to have been at some time in
the possession of night-club proprietors ? He has been
stupid in dealing with matters that he had no right to deal
with, but I ask you to say you are not satisfied that he
accepted money for an improper purpose. . . .”

The jury returned with the verdict of Guilty against
all the three prisoners. The Judge was very stern when he
told Goddard that he had wrecked what might have been
an honourable career in the police case for the sake of filthy
lucre, and said: “ It would have been well if you had
written inside your notebook the words:

“ 5 Turn from glittering gold thy scornful eye.

Nor sell for gold what gold can never buy.’

“ You hoped to live in luxury by this money, which you
had amassed by these unlawful means ; none of that money
could have given you a moment’s peace if you had any
conscience, which is doubtful.”

Goddard’s sentence was intended to make the punish¬
ment fit the crime. Imprisonment for eighteen months,
with hard labour; but of the £20,000 which the prosecu¬
tion said he had amassed through taking bribes from the
very people he was detailed to watch, he had to pay a fine
of £2,000, and to pay the costs of the prosecution, which
amounted to some £3,000. For the defence he paid
Curtis 280 guineas. The day after the trial, every night¬
club in London had a notice on its doors announcing that it
was closed. “ Illegal drinking in London is finished,”
said the press. “ Night life of a disreputable character is

251

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dead.” But the phrase seemed familiar; and in a very
few years it was announced once more that the police were
making a “ new drive ” against the type of establishment
which sells false glamour and shoddy vice, and un-
blushingly presents an exorbitant bill as the dawn creeps
over Mayfair and Soho.

In 1928, Curtis at last received convincing proof that his
divorce had been forgiven and forgotten. On the recom¬
mendation of Sir William Joynson-Hicks, the Home
Secretary, he was made Recorder of Colchester, following
the elevation of Sir Malcolm Macnaghten to the Bench.
The appointment was dated December 21, 1928, and as
King George was ill, bore the signatures of Queen Mary,
Edward Prince of Wales, and Stanley Baldwin, who were
“ . . . well satisfied of the ability and integrity of the said
Sir Henry HonywoodjCurtis r Bennett.” He discharged his
duties with great distinction—not only when presiding
over the Quarter Sessions, but when attending each year
the Colchester Oyster Luncheon. At the annual visits his
speeches were on a more serious note than his usual witty
addresses at London banquets. He looked forward to the
feasts and was invariably called upon to make one of the
most important speeches.

One of the strangest clients ever to enter Sir Henry’s
chambers was LiUias^Irma Valerie Arkell-Smith^who
briefed him in April, 1929, to present one of the most
remarkable defences ever heard in a Court of Law. The
name may not be familiar; the figure who stood in the dock
of the Old Bailey, in a mackintosh with the collar turned up,
and with the face of a handsome man, was better known as
“ Colonel Barker.”

2^2

STRANGE CASES

Mrs. Arkell-Smith was 33. She had married an Austra¬
lian Army officer in 1918, and after parting from him, had
lived with another Australian, by whom she had two
children. In the War she was a “ land girl,” dressed in
breeches and shirt. The local chemist, a Mr. Haward,
believed this masculine woman when she said that she was
Sir Victor Barker, a captain in the Army and the holder of
the D.S.O. “ Sir Victor ” asked the chemist’s daughter to
marry “ him.” They went through a form of marriage
and lived together as man and wife for three years, the
elder woman saying that “ he ” had suffered an abdominal
injury during the War.

But this story, told in a calm voice by Mr. Percival Clarke
for the prosecution, was eclipsed when he proceeded to tell
how he himself had prosecuted a certain “ Captain Barker,”
in 1927, for being in possession of firearms without a
licence. The “ captain ” was then in the National Fascist
movement. “ On that occasion,” said Mr. Clarke, “ she
came into Court with her eyes bandaged, and was led into
the dock by a friend. It was explained that the defendant
suffered from blindness owing to war wounds, and not a
soul in Court knew that it was other than a man standing
in the dock. She was acquitted.”

In 1929 she was dressed as a man, acting as reception
clerk in a Strand hotel. A receiving order in bankruptcy
had been made against “ Sir Victor Barker,” and the recep¬
tion clerk was arrested. Not until she was taken to prison
was it found that she was a woman. “ I submit that these
facts show that this person has a total disregard for the
truth or for the sanctity of the oath,” continued Mr. Clarke.
“ If she had wanted to marry another woman, she could

253

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j >

have gone to a register office; there was no justification for
her abusing the Church.”

Curtis was now defending her against a charge of making
a false entry in a marriage register that she was a bachelor.

“ The defendant’s legal advisers considered for a long
time before advising a plea of Guilty,” said Curtis, “ for
such a thing as had happened in the present case had never
been contemplated. The defendant did not obtain any
money through her * marriage ’ to Miss Haward, and in
fact supported her. There have been many distinguished
figures in history who have lived as men, and in a much
smaller sphere she has lived a respectable life, earning her
living; she is more sinned against than sinning; it is
astonishing that the misery of this woman can be made
into a sort of entertainment by people who increase her
wretchedness by coming here to stare at her. Has she
not been punished enough ? ”

The Recorder, Sir Ernest Wild, thought not.

“ Colonel Barker ” broke down and wept. But it was
with a squaring of her manly shoulders, and a military turn
on her heel, that she went out of the dock to serve her
sentence of nine months’ imprisonment.

In August, 1929, Curtis was married again. His bride
was Miss Lil ian Mary Jeffries, and after a horieymoon, he
appeared at the Old Bailey again to receive the congratula¬
tions of Judges and colleagues. He settled down more
leisurely at Boreham, still keeping his flat in Piccadilly.
One morning in September, when once more he was tour¬
ing France in his car with his wife and his son and daughter-
in-law, he was reading the Continental Daily Mail at a cafe.
The newspaper heading was “ Hatty arrested.”

Z1A

STRANGE CASES

When he returned on September 29 he learnt thaf
Edmund Daniels, charged with Hatry,' had made an
approach to obtain his services. From that moment, until
the great trial opened on January 19, he was immersed in
the complicated history of that case that shook the City
of London, that destroyed public confidence, and which
was ever afterwards said to mark the beginning of the
great depression.

Hat ry was defended by Mr. Norman Birkett and Mr.
St. John Hutchinson; Mr. Cecil Whiteley and Mr.
Walter Frampton appeared for John Dixon.

The public had heard little of the true facts of the case
except that Hatry had failed for a huge sum of money; but
on October 14 there was some inkling of the gravity of the
issues involved when the applications made by counsel for
bail for the accused were refused. Although it was proved
that the defendants had placed themselves in the hands of
Sir Archibald Bodkin, the Director of Public Prosecutions,
and had been helping Sir Gilbert Gamsey prepare a state¬
ment of the position of the companies concerned, they were
refused bail, the High Court giving an opinion that although
they had confessed, they did not then know the gravity of
the charge. Curtis, who led Mr. Christmas Humphreys,
said that the air-ports were being watched as well as the
ordinary ports. “ If you have means, you need not go
through an air-port,” was the reply. “ We are not satisfied
that if granted bail, the defendants will appear to take
their trial.”

The charge against Hatry was one of conspiracy, forgery,
and fraudulent conversion; in January there appeared with
him in the dock, as well as Daniels and Dixon, Albert

*55

CURTIS

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9 9

Tabor, defended by Mr. Roland Oliver, K.C., and Mr.
Russell Vick. For weeks before the hearing Curtis had
been to the Old Bailey, where his client came from prison
to go through the mass of papers relevant to the charges.
Daniels, who was only 3 2, had been a prominent man in
the City for eight years, largely due to Hatry’s influence.
On September 19, after a week of alarm in business circles,
during which the Hatry stock was tumbling relendessly,
Daniels had come with his chief and his associate to Sir
Gilbert Garnsey. Their faces were drawn and haggard.
They spoke of irregularities ; they said that the liabilities
would .be nearly £20,000,000.

Sir Gilbert Garnsey had warned them, asking if they
knew the seriousness of their statements. Hatry had re¬
plied that they knew exactly what it meant and what the
punishment would be. They offered to go to the police,
but Sir Gilbert, staggered by the enormity of the fraud to
which they had confessed, asked for time to consider the
position. That night Hatry returned to him; Sir Gilbert
said that he would go to the Director of Public Prosecutions.

Their decision to juggle with thei r stoc ks, they revealed,
had been made at a meeting one Sunday afternoon when
their a ffair s were already in a complicated and dangerous
position. Five of Hatry’s associates had met in a private
house near London. They talked of ruin, not in thousands
of pounds, but in millions. There was one course a dis¬
honest one—which might stave off the evil day. “ Unless
you take that course,” said one of them, “ I will blow my
brains out 1 ” That was the beginning of the fraud of the
twentieth century, rocking the confidence of the City of
London.

256

STRANGE CASES

For three days the Court heard the story of the collapse
that had followed on the heels of those rumours in the
financial columns which had been so disturbing, after which
the defendants pleaded guilty to certain counts against
them.

Hatry accepted the responsibility for the entire affair.
Curtis revealed that fact in the first sentence of his address
for his client. Daniels was working on a salary the whole
time, said Curtis. The defendants did not wish to enter
into an agreement to defraud, but even when they went
to Sir Gilbert Garnsey, they had in mind the thought that
a great number of people could still be saved from the
crash. His client, in point of fact, had not made a penny-
piece out of the frauds.

But Mr. Justice Avory’s words—words which rang with
intense meaning, and which read as well as they were
N spoken—left little doubt in the mind of Clarence Hatry
that he would be made to pay heavily for his influence on
these men who together had caused the solid foundations
of the commercial world to rock. “ You stand convicted
of one of the most appalling frauds that have ever dis¬
figured the commercial reputation of this country,” he said,
“—more serious than any of the great frauds upon the
public within the last fifty years.” He did not think there
was merit in Hatty’s confession, and he poured scorn on
the pleas for mercy that had been made. “ You were
merely succumbing to the inevitable,” he said. “ What
does your plea amount to when stripped of its rhetorical
language? It is nothing more than the threadbare plea
of every clerk or servant who robs his master, and says that
he hoped to repay the money before his crime was dis-

CURTIS

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covered, by backing a winner. Except that your crime was
on a large scale, there is no difference between that excuse
and the excuse which is made daily by the dishonest clerk
or servant. . . .”

Fourteen years was the sentence on Hatry. He turned
to go. “ Stay l ” said the Judge. And Hatry was brought
back to hear further sentences which were to run con¬
currently.

To Daniels, the Judge said : “ There is no question that
you have ta k en a leading part in the perpetration of these
forgeries and frauds, but I give effect to the statement that
has been made by Hatry that he was primarily responsible.”
Curtis’s client received a sentence of seven years. The
fraud of the century had taken only a few days to retail in
Court. The case for the Crown totalled some quarter of
a milli on words—nearly three times the length of this
volume, while the speeches in defence by various counsel
were of approximately similar length.

2^8

CHAPTER XVIII
“ Laugh and Grow Fat ”

D uring that year 1929, Curtis had been taking things
easier. He could afford to refuse briefs that did not
bring in their 100 guineas in fees. He could put into
practice a rule that he had often commended but seldom
followed; that a leading barrister should only appear in
Court for a 50-guinea fee. Licensing cases provided the
big sums still, but he had not been in the public eye in
big cases as in the great years 1922 or 1924.

His practice had not receded since those great days, save
for a short time after his divorce, but the remark was often
heard: “You don’t see Curtis-Bennett’s name in the papers
now as you used to do.” Yet the fact of the name being
in the papers was by no means a fair representation of the
work he was doing. Curtis used to comment on it himself.
Often a friend would say to him: “ You’ve been busy this
week; I’m seeing your name in the papers every day.”
But after he had gone, Curtis would say: “ That’s funny,
for this week I seem to have done less work than I’ve done
for the last six months. People seem to think that when
my name is not in print, I’m not working.”

But while the approaches made to him to conduct a case
were as frequent as ever, he now learnt the wisdom of
giving his brain a rest as often as he could. His idea of

259

leisure was found peculiar by many people, for it consisted
either in sitting at the wheel of his car for hours at a tiny*,
or lunching with his legal friends and talking on the subject
that was his work. One of his pleasures was to take lunch,
at the Savoy Grill with his old friend, who stepped into his
shoes on his appointment at the London Sessions as one
of the most distinguished leaders of the Criminal Bar, Mr.
St. John Hutchinson. He called him “ Hutch,” and many
were the days when Manetta could be seen showing these
two portly and genial men to their favourite table just off
the aisle in the middle of that famous meeting-place. Com¬
ment in the Grill would invariably turn on what chance had
allowed these two legal luminaries to spend two hours on
a leisurely luncheon. Newspaper-men would come over
to their table to talk with Curtis, and would find him genial
as always.

He was always a favourite with newspaper-men, and
although he held strong views about the “ interference ”
of the press in the lives of private individuals, he raged more
strongly against that “ senseless and morbid crew,” the
crowd of fashionably dressed men and women who flock
to a great murder trial or a peculiar sex case. “ It is disgust¬
ing 1 ” said Curtis. “ They are treating this as a spectacle;
they do not know that they are watching a poor wretch
undergoing the greatest agony of his life! ”

By the year 1930 Curtis weighed nearly twenty stone. His
doctors put him on diets, but he confessed that he could
not keep to them. They warned-him against City dinners,
which tired him out though they formed one of his great
pleasures. But though he had made attempts to spare his
constitution the great strains he put upon it, he could not

260

“laugh and grow fat”

keep to the diets. “ I’d rather die than live the miserable
sort of life I’ll have to if I keep to this,” he would say, and
another good resolution would go. Sometimes he starved
for a week or more, but he believed in the old adage
“ Laugh and grow fat,” and certainly his figure suited his
geniality and his good-humour. And though he was ever
conscious of the weakening of his heart through the strain
of his weight, he kept amazingly good health, having a
constitution that was proof against most of the common
ills. His only recurrent malady was a sudden petit mal ,
a dizziness that sometimes overcame him at the most
critical moments. Few knew that he had been visited by
this malady, but sometimes he would sit down after a
brilliant cross-examination and say afterwards to Hollis or
his son: “ I’ve had another of those attacks”. For a
few moments he would have blurred vision and com¬
plete dizziness, and for the rest of the day he suffered
from a headache that could not be shaken off. Even
his closest friends knew nothing of these attacks; his
happy philosophy was such that he was regarded rather
as happy-go-lucky; the account books and worry, the
hours of painstaking inquiry, were secrets from many of
his most intimate friends; and when he died, there were
few people who knew that he was one of the most meth¬
odical men, a stickler for efficiency in his private life.
They did not know that many of his cases tore the heart out
of him and left him exhausted; that faculty for shouldering
the burdens of others, that from his clients’ point of view
was invaluable, was from his own point of view a terrible
weight to carry. He would never leave to another a part
of the work that he could do himself; he believed that his

261

clients should know and appreciate that they “ were getting
their money’s worth.” And indeed, there was no barrister
who was so conscientious in making a personal appearance
in Court when he had made a promise to do so; often,
however, Curtis said that a client judges his counsel
only by the result, and when the verdict has gone against
him, can find only criticism of his counsel, never imagin¬
ing that a great fight has been made over a hopeless
case. . . .

In the Goddard case, to quote an instance of how Curtis
would not allow his health to interfere with his work, he
had a high temperature, and almost completely lost his
voice. It was obvious that he was in for influenza, and
the doctor ordered him to bed. But Curtis consulted a
famous specialist who treated opera stars when they lost
their voices, and, muffled to the eyes, went to Court, know¬
ing that he could talk for so long and no longer. He made
his presence felt very forcibly that day; and there was
nobody who knew that by rights he should have been
in bed.

In March, 1930, Sir Henry found himself once again in
familiar company at the Sussex Assizes at Lewes. Once
again the Court listened to the story of a shocking murder.
But now there was heard a tale of such c old-bloo ded^
b rutality by a young man on his ageing and sick mothe r
that Curtis was personally affected whenever he had occa¬
sion to address the prisoner in Court. The accused was
Sidney .Harry Fox, a 28-year-old man who had no job
and no money. Curtis was appearing for the Crown with
the Attorney-General (Sir William Jowitt, K.C.) as his
leader, and Mr. St. John Hutchinson as his junior; while

“laugh and grow fat”

Mr. J. D. Cassels, K.C., and Mr. S. T. T. James appeared
for the defence.

The woman Fox was alleged to have murdered was 63
years of age. Sidney appears to have been the favourite
son, and although the old lady had no worldly posses¬
sions of any value, she had made out a will in favour of
Sidney with pointed partiality against the eldest of her
family. But it was a pathetic document, for, in truth,
Mrs. Fox possessed only a pension of ior. a week, and except
for a few rings had nothing of value in the world. Mother
and son had a joint income of i8r. a week from their
two pensions : the old lady did not even possess night
attire or toilet materials, and travelled with a small paper
parcel.

But during October these two, having given up all hope
of increasing their income, seem to have let caution go to
the winds. They stayed at a good hotel in Canterbury
for a week, spending considerably more per day than their
pensions for the week. They left with half the bill unpaid,
but from there they went to the Hotel Metropole, Margate,
and Sidney Fox glibly told the reception clerk that their
luggage had been sent on from France. They took two
rooms in the hotel, and Sidney managed to cash a worthless
cheque with which he paid a small proportion of their bill
at the end of a few days. But the young man had a plan:
all he needed for its success was the ability to conjure up
in hims elf sufficient courage for a terrible deed. There
were some insurance policies about to lapse on his mother’s
Jjfe.” They were for short terms only, but if a fatal accident
"happened to his mother within the next forty-eight hours,
then Sidney would be paid a sum of over £3,000. He took

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some trouble to find out from the insurance companies what
type of accident Mrs. Fox must suffer in order to mak e the
policy in order. He asked clerks in local offices whether
food-poisoning in a restaurant could be classified as “ death
from external accidental means ”: he asked if the money
would be paid if she were accidentally drowned in her bath :
but, receiving the reply that these accidents might be subject
to questioning, he decided that in forty-eight hours his
mother must be burned to death.

But Sidney doubted whether the “ accident ” would
occur within the time-limit stipulated by one of the policies.
This insurance became invalid at noon on October 23 :
he therefore extended the policy until midnight, paying a
few shillings for the extra premium.

It is worth noting that during the previous six mon ths
the total income of this strange pair was £22 ior. Of this
£10 had been paid as premiums against the woman’s
accidental death.

Fox had in mind the possibility of doctors examining the
body of his mother after death. There might be, he
thought, some bruises on her limbs: casually, therefore,
he mentioned to an acquaintance in the hotel that his mother
was so much improved in health that they had engaged in a
playful “ sham fight ” the previous day. And that after¬
noon of October 23 he went and bought a bottle of port:
Dutch courage for a man about to commit matricide. *

He went to his room at half-past ten that evening. “ If
by any chance,” said the Attorney-General at the trial,
“ Mrs. Fox died by violent external means in the course
of the next hour and a half, Sidney Fox was entitled to
receive the sum of £3,000.”

264

“laugh and grow fat”

At twenty minutes to twelve, a commercial traveller
sitting in the hall saw Fox race downstairs scantily clad in
his under-garments and shouting : “ Where is the Boots ?
There is a lire! ”

The traveller rushed upstairs with Fox, and after being
driven back from Mrs. Fox’s room by clouds of smoke,
crawled in again on hands and knees and dragged out her
body.

“ Has the money been found ? ” shouted Fox : “ There
was £25 in her bag. Have they got it?”

The case for the prosecution was that Fox went upstairs
that night with murder in his heart. “ If murderer he was,
you can have no doubt of his cunning and skill,” said the
Attorney-General: “his bed had been laid on and he came
down those stairs partially undressed.”

Perhaps Fox had never envisaged the possibility of Sir
Bernard Spilsbury examining the body and proving that
he had strangled his mother. He did not know that
death from burning’ would leave soot in the wind-pipe:
or that the slight pressure that he had to put upon his
mother’s throat with his bare hands would leave a mark on
the tongue that Sir Bernard said indicated plainly that she
was dead before ever the flames crept along a petrol trail to
her chair. They produced in court the clerks with whom
he had arranged extension of insurance cover until he had
gathered courage: they produced the pieces of paper with
which he had set fire to the carpet and a cane chair: they
set up in court the gas stove and the furniture, and Sir Henry
unrolled the carpet and arranged the fender, so that the
jury could see exactly how he had gone about his grim
business.

265

• For his defence, there was produced an eminent patho¬
logist who gave directly contradicting evidence to that of
Sir Bernard Spilsbury. He had never known a case of
manual strangulation with so few signs of violence, said
this expert. But the jury were absent only a short timp
after Sir Henry had delivered a final speech for the prosecu¬
tion. The verdict was “ Guilty ”.

Another clumsy plan for murder had been foiled by the
expert evidence of that calm, good-looking official who is
known as “ the perfect witness.” The memory of one of
the most callous and mercenary killers was wiped out by
a notice posted on the wall on April 8.

It was a relief to Curtis when he appeared in a case in
which a little laughter was permissible. One of the most
light-hearted prosecutions was one which concerned the
p enny-in -the-slot machines which tempted the coins from
mill-hands on holiday at Blackpool. Curtis defended the
management of an amusement arcade on Blackpool Parade.
The police had been watching the summer crowds flocking
to a machine called “ the little stockbroker,” which offered
a gamble on a “ miniature stock exchange ” to anybody
who would like to risk a penny. The owners gave printed
instructions as to how to win back 90 per cent of the money
“ invested,” and some complicated directions were ex¬
hibited above each machine. But the case for the police
was that the holiday public in Blackpool were so anxious
to put their pennies in the machine, that no man could
spend enough time to read the instructions. They were
said to be complicated in the extreme, and Curtis, who
expended a small fortune in pennies on the model of the
machine in Court, could not persuade the Bench that these

2 66

“laugh and grow fat”

instructions were simple to follow. Prosecuting Counsel
also used the ratepayers’ money in showing the working of
“ the little stockbroker.” Mr. J. C. Jackson, K.C., had
considerable luck with his first venture; for to the general
amusement he drew four pennies. “ Put it in the till,”
said Curtis. Mr. Jackson : “ It is not out of the till. I
have played so long and it has cost the ratepayers three¬
pence.”

Curtis suggested that the Bench should dismiss the
summons, saying that it was perfectly plain that the Lan¬
cashire lads and lassies who came to Blackpool could not
lose money if they followed the directions provided with
the machines. But a police inspector had said that at the
amusement arcade there was no kind gentleman giving a
k inderga rten lesson, as Sir Henry had done, to those who
wanted to play.' The~case was sent to the Quarter Sessions,
and once again the machine was produced in Court, and
Mr. Jackson placed the ratepayers’ money into “ the little
stockbroker ” and demonstrated that on each occasion he
lost money. Curtis again submitted that there was no case
and said he hoped the Postmaster General would never have
to meet a charge of keeping gaming-houses as a result of
building telephone-boxes, in which the rules of play were
as complicated as those for manipulating “ the little
stockbroker.” “ Unless you read these instructions in
telephone boxes it is a game anyone can play,” said
Curtis.

“ There is a certainty that you will never get more out
than you put in,” said Mr. Jackson.

But Curtis lost his case, and the defendants were bound
over, Mr. Justice Avory confirming the decision some weeks

267

CURTIS

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later at the Court of Criminal Appeal. “ Anyone wishing
to make a certainty of winning would have occupied the
machine for the best part of a day,” said the Judge in dis¬
missing the appeal.

268

CHAPTER XIX
Great Acquittals

A remarkable feature of 1931 was Sir Henry’s success
in motoring cases. They were on the increase, and
although the police were taking more trouble in ensuring
that their evidence was technically correct, he was able
time after time to shake their evidence sufficiently to obtain
an acquittal. In two years he appeared in eight out¬
standing motoring cases in which he secured the acquittal
of the defendant. The courts listened to his expert
advocacy and there were few men, witnesses, juries or
Judges, who appeared to contest his statements and his
arguments.

One of the most outstanding defences was when he con¬
tested the evidence of the police in regard to the skid-marks
alleged to have been made by his client’s car. The evidence
seemed convincing when it was first given: Curtis, how¬
ever, took the trouble to make a minute examination: he
discovered that the marks referred to were shown as begin¬
ning with a clear-cut line made by the tyres: they ended
with a gradual tapering off of the impression made upon
the maca dam road. With a few questions Curtis was able
to convince the police witness that the application of brakes
resulted in the gradual checking of the wheel and that on
releasing the brake pedal, the skid-marks would end

269

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3 3

abruptly. Is it not more probable, therefore, that these skid¬
marks were made by a car travelling in precisely the opposite
direction ? submitted Curtis. The prosecution witness had
to agree, and his client was acquitted.

In another case there was revealed a very human side of
the Law. A notable public personage was accused of
dri v ing to the public danger and the most valuable witness
for the defence was a man who said he had been driving
behind the defendant and could testify that he was proceed¬
ing at a very moderate speed. The offence was alleged to
have been committed in the West End of London. Sir
Henry’s witness duly testified as to the speed of the car in
front of him, but when he was cross-examined he seemed
unw illing to answer a question as to wh y he hi ms elf was
proceeding at a mere 15 miles an hour. For some time
it seemed aTttiough the testimony of this witness would
lose its value, for he persistently refused to say why it was
that he was driving at less than his normal speed. Sir
Henry was greatly troubled. The case was obviously in
the balance in the mind of the magistrate : but during the
short and rather puzzling silence in the Court, the witness
suddenly came to a decision to tell the whole truth: “ I
will tell you why I was going so slowly,” he said: “I was
trying to pick up a girl.”

“ It’s our case,” said Curtis ; and he was right.

He secured the acquittal of a yo ung Army officer c harged
with manslaughter, of wanton driving and of being drunk
and disorderly, by a superb defence that evolved almost into
an attack on the police. His client had passed with flying
colours a test which Mr. Justice Charles said would have
beaten almost any man. The police had asked the officer

270

GREAT ACQUITTALS

to pronounce the words : “ British constitution,” “ Royal
Field Artillery,” “ Aberystwyth,” “ Buenos Aires,” “ Per¬
nambuco,” and “ Ecclefechan.” They had asked his client
who had won the last by-election, where it was and why
General Smith-Dorrien was sent home from the War, In
another case a racing trainer had been charged with drunken¬
ness when driving because he had been sarcastic with a
policeman, “ Have a joke with a Judge if you like,” said
Curtis, “ but never joke with a policeman when he is on
duty.” He secured the acquittal of a Cheltenham colonel
accused of being “ drunk in charge,” and said of a naval
officer accused of driving to the danger of the public:

“ His car is a noisy little one, and it is an extremely stupid
thing to drive a car which makes a noise. Rich people can
drive Rolls Royces quite quickly without any attention
because they drive quietly. But it attracts attention if you
make a noise.”

In the case of an Oxford undergraduate who was
acquitted of manslaughter, Curtis said: “ There is no
speed limit in these days. When they hear of 35 miles
an hour, people hold up their hands and say ‘ 55 miles
an hour! ’, but if any of you have driven a car during
the week-end, and have touched 35 miles an hour or 40,
did you think that if you had the misfortune of seeing
someone step out in front of you, you could be charged with
manslaughter.”

As Recorder of Colchester, he decided that a man charged
with being “ drunk in charge ” was equally liable even if
he was driving in a private road leading to his own house.
His point was that the public—the butcher, the grocer and
the baker—had access to that road. Sir Henry said he

271

would give a certificate for an appeal on the point of Law
to the Court of Criminal Appeal.

But one of his greatest triumphs in that period was the
dismissal of the charge against Lord Howard of Effin gham^
who was accused of manslaughter, a coroner’s jury having
returned a verdict of criminal negligence on his part after
the death of a labourer on the Henley Road. Lord Howard
drove up to a constable at Maidenhead and said he had
run into something : his windscreen was smashed and the
window was dented. The body of the labourer was found
on the footpath the nest morning. The prosecution could
not prove whether the labourer had been on the path or the
road, and there was said to be a thick fog. Curtis
vigorously criticized the conduct of the coroner’s court.
“ As an example of the atmosphere at these proceedings,”
he said, “ Lord Howard, who was a stranger in the district,
was asked why he went as far as Maidenhead to report.
If we found ourselves in a strange part I doubt if we should
know where the nearest policeman lived. Yet even that
was put down against him.” Five minutes later the Bench
returned with a decision that there was not sufficient
evidence to send Sir Henry’s client for trial.

Again, in January of 1933, he had the Recorder of Oxford
stopping the case against another man, accused of driving
under the influence of drink. The police surgeon described
his tests on the defendant and referred to “ the peak hour ”
of drunkenness after taking alcohol: “ This is a new one
to me,” said the Recorder.

Sir Henry : “ I have never heard of the peak before.”

The doctor said he tested the defendant’s susceptibility
to pain : “ What did you use for that ? ”

WITH HIS MOTHER, EMILY, LADY CURTIS-BENNETT
AND MR. FREKE PALMER, THE FAMOUS SOLICITOR

CHAIRMAN OF THE COUNTV OF LONDON SESSIONS

GREAT ACQUITTALS

“ A pin.”

Sit Henry: “ I see. You stick a pin into him and if he
jumps he is normal.” The doctor agreed. Almost simul¬
taneously the Recorder asked the jury if they had heard
enough.

Two good successes on appeal to Sir Henry’s credit were
when he represented Brenda Dean Paul, who had been sen¬
tenced to six months’ imprisonment, and when he appealed
for the “ thousand-a-year woman golfer ” who had been
convicted of stealing a ten-shilling note from a handbag.
His appeal for Brenda Paul was most moving. “ I propose
that she be taken into the country and looked after,” he
said. “ Do try this proposal. She, having tasted a little
of what imprisonment is like, would never do anything
again to put herself within prison walls.”

Curtis had himself defended the woman at the police
court for the alleged theft of a ten-shilling note at her golf
club. A detective had marked a note and left it in her bag
in the dressing-room, and said he had watched while she
took possession of it. After her conviction she cabled
her husband—an important official in Ceylon—to return
to England, and expressed her determination to take the
matter to the Home Office. “ Some people think the police
cannot make a mistake,” said Curtis. “ It is clear that they
can.”

Apparendy the Court thought so too, for the appeal was
allowed.

On Janu ar y 20,1932, Curtis lost one of his oldest friends
in Freke Palmer, who died just after making a speech at a
banquet. Curtis was heartbroken, and his comment at the
time he was mourning his oldest friend was recalled, years

273 t

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c <

afterwards, with the feeling that it, bore more than usual
significance. “ I hope that when my time comes, I will die
in a similar way—surrounded by my friends, without long
illness, without pain,” he said.

The friendship between the great solicitor and Curtis was
truly remarkable; there was a wide difference in their ages,
for Freke Palmer had been long established in practice when
Curtis was first called to the Bar. But the solicitor made
him an executor, and Mr. A. A. Romain, who carried on
a practice in the same road as Freke Palmer, is now
conducting the work of his own firm and that of Freke
Palmer with great distinction. Freke Palmer had prac¬
tised before Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett, senior; he made
the career of Curtis-Bennett himself; and much to Sir
Henry’s gratitude, was able to start his son, Derek Curtis-
Bennett, on the road.

Sir Henry’s first case of importance in 1933 was his
defence of Compton Mackenzie, the author, when charged
with an offence under the Official Secrets Act in connection
with his book Greek Memories. Mr. Mackenzie had pleaded
“ Guilty ” and the public were not to know very much
about the confidential secrets which he was alleged to have
referred to in his book. The famous author, Curtis
revealed, usually received over £1,000 for a novel, but for
each of a series of books of “ memoirs ” he received only
£300. He did not have money in his mind, but had written
the book to tell the truth about M. Venizelos. This was
the first case heard in camera since the War and the fine was
£ioo, the Judge telling Mr. Mackenzie: “ I do not say
the Attorney-General has succeeded in persuading me that
the document you published is of so much importance as

Z74

GREAT ACQUITTALS

some of His Majesty’s servants attached to it: the prosecu¬
tion are satisfied you had no intention to do anything hostile
to the interests of your country. I hope this case may do
something to warn those whose urge to write is greater
than their discretion.”

One of Sir Henry’s biggest criminal cases which con¬
cerned the financial world, was his defence of Harry Geen,
who was charged with receiving large sums of money from
the Broad Street Press knowing them to have been obtained
by fraud. The prosecution said that Geen had been
extradited from America on these charges, and that the
methods of the working of a number of conspirators was
to start a financial paper, the City News, giving advice about
stocks and shares. At first the advice was sound and trust¬
worthy, but after gaining the confidence of the public they
employed share-pushers and touts to purchase worthless
paper. One of the moving spirits, it was said, was Jacob
Factor, who was still in America, and who had always
appeared as a substantial man of business to Harry Geen.
The trial lasted for ten days and Curtis’s brief was marked
1,000 g uin eas. In his address for the defence he
emp h asized his point that Geen had been duped by “ that
extraordinary figure ” Jacob Factor, through whose account
there had passed £800,000 in 1928, and nearly twice that
sum in 1929, when there was no suggestion of fraud. “ Let
the right people suffer,” said Curtis, not the underlings
who were misled into the positions they held and merely
carried out the instructions of a much greater personality.”

Curtis also appeared in the “ Great Fire Trial.” For
thirty-three days Leopold Harris and his associates were
sitting in the dock which had been fitted to accommodate

275

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them in the Old Bailey. Curtis was appearing for Jarvis,
and in an impassioned appeal after announcing that his
client had withdrawn his plea of “ Not Guilty ” to certain
counts in the indictment, said that Jarvis had had a life
which could be described as “ hell upon earth.” It had
been admitted by the prosecution that he had not been
active for some years, and had not only admitted his fault
but had refrained from making any suggestions of perjury
against witnesses for the prosecution. Jarvis received three
years’ penal servitude.

It was in many ways the most remarkable trial that Curtis
had ever listened to. The prisoners had increased in
number from day to day as the police roped in their suspects.
The chief witness for the Crown was the spy in the enemies’
camp—Camillo Capsoni—who had been in the pay of the
prosecution for more than a year while enjoying the com¬
plete confidence of the fire gang. “ We use him and seek
to use him merely as an instrument of justice,” Mr. Oliver
said for the prosecution, and indeed during those long days
of waiting, in Capsoni’s story of how he had worked with
Mr. William Charles Crocker, the solicitor whose name sud¬
denly became famous, and with Leopold Harris and his
gang of fire-raisers, there was drama in every sentence,
which added to the infamy of this unscrupulous gang who
had pillaged the insurance world in London. There were
many innovations in the Court that had never been known
at the Old Bailey. Apparatus for the deaf was installed:
there was a complete telephone service from Mr. Oliver’s
table to a library of papers and exhibits in a room below:
100,000 documents were filed by a staff of clerks for im¬
mediate reference: 121 witnesses had given evidence during

276

GREAT ACQUITTALS

preliminary proceedings and their statements had totalled
half a million words : the cost to the public for the satisfac¬
tion of knowing that a national scandal had been exposed
was £100,000.

In September of 1933, Curtis found himself briefed to
appear for Sir Leo Chiozza Money, who had been sum¬
moned for assault by a young girl who alleged that he
had forcibly kissed her in a railway carriage. The defence
was a denial that he had forced his kisses upon her. Sir
Leo said in the witness-box that he had kissed her hands,
and that as an author and journalist he liked to talk to all
and sundry on general matters. Curtis spoke of the girl
as being unusually sensitive. “ I think this will be a lesson
to many of us not to speak to people to whom we have not
been introduced. I have no doubt this sensitive girl got
frightened and thought that something might be going to
happen.”

Sir Leo was fined, the Bench saying that his conduct had
brought him within the charges preferred against him.

During this year and the next Sir Henry’s success in
defence was really remarkable. He seemed to be in a
winning streak, and his note-books record an unceasing
series of cases in which he defended the accused and
obtained an acquittal either on the first hearing or on appeaL
He successfully defended one of the newly elected sheriffs
of the City of London in October, 1933, against a charge
of insulting a woman servant: in November he succeeded
in extracting from a Judge a statement that the conviction
of a doctor convicted of manslaughter in a motoring
accident ought not to result in his being struck off the
Register: he secured a verdict of “ Not Guilty ” for a

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9 9

Kent man accused of the manslaughter of a boy while driv¬
ing : he successfully represented a Mr. Jones who was
accused by his wife of attempting to poison her with
arsenic: he was unsuccessful in defending Eric Hatry, the
barrister, against a charge of cruelty to a cat; but when
a young school-boy rugby footballer was charged with the
manslaughter of his best friend after a birthday party,
Curtis successfully defended him and established that the
blow was struck by accident.

In an important case in which he appeared for the Crown,
a verdict of “ Guilty ” was returned against Albert Probert
and Frederick Parker accused of the Portslade Shop murder.
In August, 1934, he was one of three famous K.C.s who
were briefed by Dorothy Sibley, a rich young girl, in a case
which the magistrates described as something very near
Alice in Wonderland. The charge of obtaining goods from
Harrods by false pretences was before the Court six times.
Miss Sibley had first briefed Mr. J. D. Cassels, then Sir
Henry, and finally Mr. Norman Birkett.

In 1935 he gave some typically audacious advice to
motorists when he appeared for the defence in the case
of a man charged with manslaughter. “ If you are ever
stopped by the police,” he said, “ don’t for goodness’ sake
touch the car in any way or you will be said to be leaning
on it for support. Don’t sway at all when you are walking
or you will be said to be staggering under the influence
of drink. Spring smartly to attention, stand upright out¬
side the car and say: * I am not guilty of whatever you are
about to charge me with doing.’ ”

In another motoring case he secured the acquittal of Capt.
William George Mells, charged with manslaughter, after a

278

GREAT ACQUITTALS

prolonged trial at Northampton Assizes. Once again he
cited that most valuable judgment in “ Rex v. Bateman ”
in which the Lord Chief Justice stated that “ ... in order
to establish criminal liability, the facts must be such that
the negligence of the accused went beyond the mere matter
of compensation between subjects, and showed such a
disregard for the life and safety of others as to amount
to a crime against the State. ...”

Sir Henry had made a great effort at the first hearing to
induce the magistrates to say that there was no case to go
to the jury. He had then urged that it should go for trial
at the Old Bailey, but again he failed and secured the
acquittal after a magnificent address in which he said:
“ . . . Forty miles an hour sounds a good deal more in
a court of justice than it does when you are upon the road.
Not so many years ago io miles an hour was considered
fast; then 20 miles an hour was the speed limit; now 30
miles an hour in built-up areas is the speed limit; 40 miles
sounds a good deal more than it really is with modern cars
and modern brakes.”

Another fine defence was made on behalf of a former
Chief of Police in Tanganyika, who was charged with
manslaughter. The coroner had received many communi¬
cations, and Sir Henry rightly emphasized that the prosecu¬
tion depended entirely upon circumstantial evidence.
“ Circumstantial evidence is sometimes stronger than
direct evidence,” he said. “ But I suggest that in this
case you have seen a terrible example of what may go
wrong.”

All these were important and remunerative cases, but
from the point of view of legal interest, of paramount im-

270

portance was the “ Golf Links Murder Trial ” in which
Curtis prosecuted Percy Anderson, who was accused of
murdering his sweetheart and leaving her body in a water-
tank on the East Brighton golf-links. A suggestion of a
defence of insanity was put forward by Mr. Eric Neve for
the defence, and Anderson in the box told of a “ blank
moment ” that he experienced while he was having a q uarr el
with the girl. Anderson admitted that his sweetheart
seemed to have been strangled by his own scarf. “ Are
you telling the jury that after the girl was shot at. and
murdered by the scarf being tied tightly round her neck,
for the first time in your life you had a blank moment ? ”
Curtis asked. The answer was in the affirmative.

The Lord Chief Justice paid an outstanding compliment
to Curtis for his prosecution. “ In all my experience of
listening to criminal cases—I am sorry to say for well over
thirty years—I have never heard of a charge of murder
more clearly, more concisely, or more fairly opened to
a jury than this case was opened by Sir Henry Curtis-
Bennett.”

This was the last time Sir Henry was to appear before
the Lord Chief Justice and the tribute pleased him
greatly.

Lord Hewart went on to an interesting and authoritative
thesis on the meaning of a “ defence of insanity.” “ It is
a question about which more than one profession is
cultivating loose, lax and sloppy views,” he said. “ Every
man is presumed to be sane and responsible for his crime
until the contrary is proved. . . .

“ To establish a defence on the grounds of insanity, it
must be clearly proved that at the time of the committing

280

GREAT ACQUITTALS

of the act, the party accused was labouring under such a
defect of reason from disease of the mind as not to know
the nature and quality of the act he was doing ; or, if he
did know it, that he did not know that he was doing what
was wrong.”

Mr. Neve in his final speech had concluded by asking
the jury to let the accused man go out and see the sunshine
and hear the larks singing. The Judge’s comment was:

“ It seemed to be suggested to you that unless you came
to a conclusion in the prisoner’s favour, you are interfering
with the solar system and breaking off the singing of birds.

I am sure you will not have any consideration of that kind
present in your mind. The solar system is much more
likely to be interfered with, and the song of birds much
more likely to cease, if juries upon a sentimental exhortation
fail to do their duty. ...”

Anderson was sentenced to death.

In June, 1935, Curtis had another excellent success in the
Court of Criminal Appeal on behalf of the Duke of Man¬
chester, who had been convicted and sentenced to nine
months’ imprisonment on two charges of obtaining money
by false pretences. Curtis had defended at the Old Bailey
before the Recorder of London, and the Recorder’s
summing-up on that occasion received a severe criticism
from the Lord Chief Justice in the Court of Criminal
> Appeal.

Curtis had pleaded that Sir Holman Gregory had left
great confusion in the minds of the Jury as a result of his
summing-up, and Lord Hewart agreed, saying that it was
insufficient and unsatisfactory. He continued : “ Nor does
it appear that if the summing-up had been what it ought to

CURTIS

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9 9

have been, the jury would certainly have arrived at the same
conclusion or would inevitably have convicted.” The
court allowed the appeal and the conviction was quashed.

On July 4, 1935, Curtis was appointed chairman of the
Essex Quarter Sessions in succession to Mr. Collingwood
Hope, K.C. “My father was always very anxious to
become chairman, but he never achieved that ambition,”
said Curtis, “ and I am honoured because I am an Essex
man of many generations.”

More than once Curtis was opposed by his son Derek
in licensing cases. He usually had a word to say for the
opposition that he knew was coming from his “ young and
learned friend whose name I seem to recognize.” And in
reply to his occasional sarcasm, his son would say : “ My
learned friend ought to have known what I was going to
say, for I learnt at his knees all that there was to learn for
and against licensing. Do not be lured by the art and
attractiveness by which out of his sage experience he can
present such applications. The way he submits his
argument puts you in a sort of anaesthesia for a time—
when you come out of it—and I hope you are emerging
now—you realize that there is absolutely nothing in it
at all.”

In those years Curtis added to the reputation he had
already gained in representing the brewery companies
before magistrates. His name, indeed, deserves to go down
through the history of the strange laws of England for
having been responsible for the ending of that curious
situation, a source of wonder to every visitor to these
shores, which made drinking on one side of Oxford Street
legal and on the other side illegal. Time and again Curtis

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had crossed swords in friendly fashion with representatives
of the Church who appeared to contest his applications.
In one case it was asked : “ How would Sir Henry Curtis-
Bennett like to have a public-house placed near his house
at Chelmsford ? ”

“ There is one,” said Curtis.

He urged upon Justices the argument that convictions
of drunkenness were diminishing all over the country.

“ You can hardly see a drunken man nowadays,” he said.

“ You can trust your public, and who knows better what
the public desire than the licence-holders.” And in reply
to the Bishop of Willesden, concerning the Marylebone
licensing hours, he said : “ It is typical of the history of our
country that minorities shout loudest: To-day, no doubt,
opposition will be led by my Lord Bishop who will have
canons to the right of him and canons to the left of him:
respectable working-men are being driven to certain
types of clubs because the public-houses are closed too
early.”

But it was not till 1935 that the Oxford Street drinking
anomaly was ended. As early as 1923 Curtis had been
applying for a reform: “ It is unfair to restaurant pro¬
prietors on the north side of the street,” he had said, “ and
there is little doubt that the increase in night-clubs has had
some relation to the restrictions.”

The Li censing Act had been passed in 1921, but it had
taken thirteen years for the justices to be convinced that it
was an absurd situation for men in the inns on one side of
the street to be ejected at closing time, only to walk through
the traffic to drink for another half an hour within the law
on the other side of the street.

In January, 1935, Sir Henry was made Master of the
Golden and Silver Wyfe Drawers Company. At the
Company’s Banquet on December 19 in the Mansion House
banquetting-room which had been lent by Sir Percy
Vincent, the Lord Mayor and first Warden, Curtis made a
magnificent speech. Indeed Mr. Cecil Whiteley, the new
Common Sergeant, said it was the finest after-dinner
speech he had ever heard.

At three o’clock in the morning on the 15 th of August,
1935, Lord de Clifford, well known as a skilled motorist
with many international trial trophies to his credit, was
driving a small Lancia car along the Kingston Bypass
away from. London.

The Kingston Bypass had become known as one of
the most dangerous roads in the country, and time and
again coroners have had occasion to comment on its evil
reputation. Lord de Clifford saw the lights of another
car approaching him. To his astonishment they appeared
to be on the wrong side of the road, that is on the same
side as his car was travelling. As they came nearer, and
as it became obvious to Lord de Clifford that there was
likely to be 'an accident, he drove over to the offside of
the road in an effort to prevent a calamity. His speed
was about 40 miles an hour, but he gained the impression
that the other car was travelling much faster, and was
“ out of control.” As he reached the offside of the road
Lord de Clifford realized that the on-coming car was,
in fact, now on its correct side of the road. He made
an effort to drive back to the left-hand side, but at a point
in about the middle of the road, the two cars collided.
It seemed that the driver of the other car had also altered

28a

GREAT ACQUITTALS

his direction on seeing the Lancia. Both the cars were
seriously damaged: but there was a far more serious
result. Douglas George Hopkins, the driver of the
Fraser-Nash car, was killed. The passengers—his sister.
Miss Sheila Hopkins, who was sitting on the near side
of the car, and Miss Rosemary Reynolds, who was seated
in the middle—were injured. Lord de Clifford was also
injured.

After the inquest. Lord de Clifford was arrested and
charged with manslaughter. After a hearing at the police
court he was committed for trial at the Old Bailey. The
defendant being a Peer of the Realm and the crime alleged
against him being felony, there was no alternative but
for the case to be removed by writ of certiorari to the
House of Lords to be tried “ by his Peers ” as a court
of first instance. It was erroneously thought by many
people that the decision to be tried by the House of Lords
rested with Lord de Clifford, although his solicitors fre¬
quently reminded the public that this was not the case.
Lord de Clifford’s advisers retained Sir Henry Curtis-
Bennett as counsel for the defence. In contradiction to
the mistaken popular feeling, it can be said that Lord de
Cliff ord’s advisers would certainly have preferred the case
to be heard before a jury, to which Curtis was accustomed,
rather than before the unknown quantity—in both senses
of the word—of the members of the Upper House.

The last occasion on which a Peer had been called
before the House on a charge of felony was in 1901, when
Earl Russell pleaded guilty to bigamy.

As us ual, Curtis took immense trouble in acquainting
himself with every detail of the circumstances of the

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accident. He himself went out in his car one night to
the Kingston Bypass with another car and a press photo¬
grapher. He did not know what results would be obtained
by his experiments, but he was certain there must be good
foundation for Lord de Clifford’s belief that the Fraser-
Nash was on the wrong side of the road. Several photo¬
graphs were taken from the driving-seat of one car of
the road ahead, with the other car approaching round
the slight bend. These photographs, when they were
developed, showed clearly that de Clifford might well have
been misled by a strange freak of the road. The lights
of the approaching car, which was driven well to its correct
side, gave an unmistakable impression that it was in fact,
on the wrong side of the road.

Curtis also discovered that a kink in the road tended
to throw a car on to its off-side. He had hundreds of
these photographs prepared, and contemplated having a
scale model of the road built to use as evidence. He
made a most careful examination of both cars, and spent
hours of study bringing his unrivalled technical knowledge
to bear on the most minute facts connected with the
case.

On December 12, the House of Lords assembled,
presided over by Lord Hailsham, the High Chancellor,
with four Judges of the High Court to advise the court
upon any question of law which might arise, eighty-five
peers being present. The Sergeant at Arms declared:
“ Oyez! Oyez ! Oyez! Our Sovereign Lord the King
strictly charges and commands all manner of persons to
keep silence under pain of imprisonment.”

The Commission was read appointing the Lord Chan-

286

GREAT ACQUITTALS

cellor Lord High Steward of the Court, after which the
White Staff of Office was presented to him by the Garter
and Usher of the Black Rod. The indictment having
been read, the Sergeant at Arms called out: “ Oyez!
Oyez 1 Oyez! Edward Southwell Lord de Clifford,
come forward and save you and your bail or else you
forfeit your recognisance.” Lord de Clifford was brought
to the Bar, and made three reverences, and after being
“ advised to give attention ” he was arraigned upon the
indictment.

“ What say you, my Lord ? Are you guilty of the
felony with which you are charged or not guilty ? ”

Lord de Clifford : “ Not guilty.”

The Clerk of the Parliaments: “ How will you be
tried ? ”

Lord de Clifford : “ By God and my Peers.”

The Clerk of the Parliaments : “ God send your Lord-
ship a good deliverance.”

For the Crown there appeared the Attorney-General,
the Right Honourable Sir Thomas Inskip, K.C., M.P.,
the Solicitor-General, Sir Donald Somervell, K.C., M.P.,
Mr. Eustace Fulton and Mr. Christmas Humphreys. Sir
Henry had with him for the defence, Mr. Ryder Richard¬
son, Mr. Neville Faulks, and Mr. John C. Tait, and was
instructed by Mr. J. Thomson Halsall.

The Attorney-General’s opening dealt mainly with the
facts and the measurements. Curtis had few questions
to ask the first witness, but he did elicit some important
facts regarding the probable speed of the car driven by
the deceased. He elicited from one of the passengers in
the car that until the collision took place they had seen

zSj

no car approaching, and from the other passenger he
confirmed that immediately before the collision the three
occupants had been conversing. Immediately after the
case for the Crown was closed Sir Henry submitted that
there was no case made out by the Prosecution against
Lord de Clifford for manslaughter. He had his witnesses
ready outside the Court, and he was prepared to distribute
his photographs and embark upon a lengthy explanation
of the exact circumstances which had given rise to the
accident. Lord de Clifford himself was anxious to give
his explanation, but in a few forceful words Sir Henry
had reminded their Lordships exactly how the law stood
in regard to criminal negligence. Once more he used
with destructive effect his old friend Rex v. Bateman.
“ In a judgment of my Lord Hewart the Lord Chief
Justice,” he said, “ in order to establish criminal liability
the facts must be such that in the opinion of the jury,
the negligence of the accused went beyond a mere matter
of compensation between subjects, and showed such dis¬
regard for the life and safety of others to amount to a
crime against the State.”

The mere fact that a motorist was on the wrong side
of the road was not necessarily evidence of negligence. . . .
The fact that the occupant of the car saw nothing con¬
firmed Lord de Clifford’s account of his own actions.
“ Is this not a position in which any of your Lordships,
either driving a car or being driven, might find yourself
even to-night ? . . . Over and over again when you
are walking on the proper side of the footpath how often
do you find somebody coming to meet you? You go
to the wrong side and he goes to his right side, and you

288

GREAT ACQUITTALS

go back on your right side, and so does he, and you collide.
Because Lord de Clifford did in the agony of the moment,
just before the collision took place, what he believed at
that moment to be the only course, is that to be said to be
criminal negligence ? ”

With the agreement of the Peers the Court adjourned
until after lunch. Although these were unfamiliar sur¬
roundings Sir Henry had soon found that he had the
sympathy of their Lordships. After lunch the Lord High
Steward, addressing Sir Henry, announced : “ The Judges
have unanimously advised their Lordships that your
submission is well founded, and that there is no case
to answer.”

The Peers were then asked whether the prisoner was
guilty or not guilty, and the Clerk of the Parliaments,
reading from a list, called on each of their Lordships by
name, to which each replied: “ Not guilty, upon my
Honour.”

“ My Lords, I declare that Edward Southwell Lord de
Clifford is acquitted of the felony . . intoned the Lord
High Steward.

The proclamation was read dissolving the commission
and the Sergeant-at-Arms announced that: “ Our Sover¬
eign Lord the King doth strictly charge and co mm and
all manner of persons here present to depart thence in
the Peace of God.” The Lord High Steward, holding
the Staff in both hands, broke it in two, and declared the
commission to be dissolved.

Curtis, like the Peers, was always satisfied of Lord de
Clifford’s innocence : but the unusual and indeed awesome
atmosphere of the House of Lords had made him extremely

289 u

nervous as to how to conduct the case, and it was a tribute
to his level-headedness that he was able to sense the
feelings of their Lordships correctly, and to make a sub¬
mission that a less courageous advocate might never have
made.

CHAPTER XX

“ A New Life ”

I N the summer of 1936, Curtis took a well-earned holiday
in France. His wife was with him, and his son and
daughter-in-law were to follow by road and join him at
Royat. He had said that if he could manage to visit
Royat again he would be quite recovered, and able to
carry through the rest of the year without distress. But
for the first time in his life he had complained that he
woke up in the morning without zest for the day’s work;
he was always tired and unwilling to face problems and
struggles; he relied entirely on Royat to correct the
malady.

The well-remembered road south was as great a delight
as ever, and there was no hint of fatigue in his handling
of the big car. Those who welcomed him en route found
him as genial as ever, and within a few days of his arrival
at the Majestic Palace Hotel, he seemed to have recovered
even more rapidly than ever. His son was delighted to
find him cheerful again and active, and confident that he
would return to London fully competent to enter the fray.

But it was not to be. Lady Curtis-Bennett, herself
never very strong, fell ill during the third week of their
stay at Royat, and Sir Henry was always immediately
affected when she was ill. She suffered a severe attack

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> >

of colitis and was in considerable pain for several days.
Within twenty-four hours, the worry and helplessness
felt by Sir Henry, his insistence on taxing his own strength
unduly, undid all the good work of the brief holiday.
When his son returned to Royat, at Sir Henry’s request,
after a few days’ tour, he found him worse than when
he had left London.

Curtis acted as day and night nurse. As ever, he
would leave little to others and was unwilling to save
himself a severe strain that he knew was unwise from
his own point of view. He could not rest, nor feel
confident of the outcome, unless he himself ministered to
the hourly needs of the invalid. He put all thought of
his own health aside, and made two invalids where there
had been one. The long-anticipated holiday was a tragedy,
and when he drove back, arriving in London on the 31st
of August, he was in no condition to do battle with the
briefs that awaited him at his chambers.

He walked into his chambers and saw the desk littered
with briefs and other papers. Suddenly he felt, for the
first time in his life, unwilling to settle down to them.
Nothing could compensate him for the loss of that feeling
of willingness for battle. More attractive than at any
time in his career, there loomed the possibility of a
judgeship.

There were other considerations, one favourable to the
acceptance of such a course, the other unfavourable. Sir
Henry had known that for some time there had been
rumours or impressions in the legal world that he would
never be offered a judgeship because he had been respondent
in a divorce suit. It would be sweet justification to

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c <

> j

countef those rumours. On the other hand, he knew
he must face an immense drop in income, at a time of
life when a man is least suited to altering the style of his
living. He could count on an income of £10,000 a year
or so from his practice; the most that he could expect
if he achieved what was his life’s ambition—the Recorder-
ship of London—was £4,000 a year.

Could he re-adjust his life to that extent? Could he
reduce his charity subscriptions, deny himself the privilege
of giving lavish hospitality on the night of a big fight,
perhaps reduce living expenses at Boreham and Deanery
Street, depend on one motor-car, and partially retire from
a social world that depended on first-nights and important
public banquets ?

Men said that he was careless about money, but he
knew himself precisely where he stood, and—undreamt
of by most of his colleagues—he had a matter of £20,000
invested, saved year by year. But he was a man who
liked everything about him to be efficient and perfect—
and that cost money. It would be a revolution in his life
when he did give up his practice; he would find it hard
to adapt himself to a reduced standard of living.

But leisure was the most urgent need of all; he had
worked too hard, and the strain had told on him.

In September, as if to repay himself for the unfortunate
holiday at Royat, he went to Scotland. Here there was
a too-eloquent indication of his lack of energy. For he
said he was tired of the Great North Road, and actually
had his long car put on the night train that took him and
his wife. At the station he fussed over the arrange¬
ments in his old style, and there was no indication of

293

CURTIS

< <

} >

laisser-jaire at any fate in his concern for its welfare. He
chivvied railway officials, expressed doubts as to whether
it would be taken off the train at Perth, and asked a hundred
questions. The whole business, he thought, was being
conducted in much too casual a manner. But on his
return he had to admit that his fears were groundless,
and that the railway officials, whose efficiency he so gravely
suspected, had superintended the transport of his precious
vehicle with calm precision.

This was like the old Curtis—worrying over every detail
that was not in his own charge, fearful lest there should
be the slightest hitch to wreck his careful organization.
His nervousness was a sign of normality, and it would
have been a more dangerous symptom if he had adopted
a fatalistic attitude.

He toured Scotland for ten days, but it could not be
said that he was better. He was still tired, still uneasy
at the prospect of tackling another spell of hard work.
Once again he had the car put on the train, and soon after
he had returned to London, at a time when everything
had conspired to make him less eager for the rough-and-
tumble of the Criminal Bar, he was offered the opportunity
of escape. Sir Percival Clarke died on October 5, and
shortly after Curtis had a letter from Sir John Simon’s
private secretary. Would he accept the position of
Chairman of the London Sessions ?

Sir John’s letter added that he would quite understand
if he refused, but could he give an answer in twenty-four
hours ?

Curtis was crowded out with work. He was briefed
for the defendants in the Girl Pal case, and was most

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worried about it. He wanted to take on the case, but he
realized it was no easy task; also on his desk were two
other big briefs for a murder case and another important
case at Exeter Assizes; a third was for the defence of a
solicitor.

Altogether, Curtis would have to return 1,700 guineas’
worth of work. He would have to refuse this for a salary
of £2,250 a year.

But he was immensely pleased at being offered the
position without applying for it. He knew that the
Recordership of London would probably become vacant
within a year or two, and he was going to apply for it
himself. The Chairmanship of London Sessions would
be the obvious stepping-stone—as one of his friends put
it: "... if you are prepared to be Recorder of London
and accept a salary of £4,000 a year in exchange for your
present income, the Chairmanship of the London Sessions
will smooth out the path.” Curtis did not even make
a pretence of considering the matter. Although he was
appalled at the thought of the income and super-tax that
he would have to pay from a meagre salary, he was almost
like a child in his pleasure. He accepted by return of
post, and as he walked down Piccadilly that day, ordering
wine and cigars at Fortnum’s, a suit or two from his tailor,
spending £100 before he reached the Temple, he said
jocularly that very soon all he would be able to do would
be to put sixpence in a machine for a packet of cigarettes.

And on October 16 the appointment was officially con¬
firmed. Many of his friends were surprised at his accept¬
ance. They knew that after receiving an income averag¬
ing £10,000 a year, he would not look forward to one

295

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of £2,250. Many thought he could not do it, for, as has
been said, he was falsely credited with a lavish extravagance.
Yet the apparent freedom from care about his finances
was the result of his studied methods of accountancy.
The little diaries that recorded his worldly success saved
him from doubt, and there was no man who committed
his life to paper more minutely. He was making a great
sacrifice, but he was prepared for it, and he knew that
he had no choice. And he almost admitted as much to
friends who asked him how he was looking forward to
the future.

By every post there came letters of congratulation
from old friends, and men he had met but once, who had
been impressed by his personality and his kindliness;
letters not only of congratulation, but of welcome to the
London Sessions; letters from men he had flattered by
remembering their names and their faces. Five hundred
letters signed by some of the most illustrious names in
the legal world; and in not one single instance did he
look at the signature and say: “I wonder who that
could be?”

In the next two weeks he answered every letter by
hand, postponing many engagements in order to fulfil
his social duty. He scrawled in the familiar, almost
illegible, writing a few words of special gratitude to each.
He wrote: “ It is nice to have had such a charming
letter from you, and you must forgive me for not having
answered it before, but over 500 take some time to write.
I shall now get some rest after years of overwork and
perhaps it may lead somewhere, one never knows. Best
wishes.”

296

A NEW LIFE

c c

> )

On October 20, Sir Henry took his seat as Ch a i rman
of London Sessions, and was welcomed by the largest
gathering of barristers that had ever assembled at the
Sessions House. He was most moved at the warmth of
the welcome, and by the fact that it was his old friend
“ Jimmy ” Cassels who spoke on behalf of the Bar.
“ . . . Some of us have known him since he was a junior,
waiting for briefs to come,” said Mr. Cassels; “ we have
seen him become the busiest silk at the Criminal Bar,
and far from waiting for briefs to come, he has waited
for them to go out.”

Another old friend, Mr. St. John Hutchinson, K.C.,
referred to the sacrifices Sir Henry had made for the
purpose of serving the State ; and in reply to these speeches,
and to other tributes paid by Mr. Beaufoi Moore and Mr.
T. M. O’Callaghan on behalf of the junior Bar, Sir Henry
recalled that he was relinquishing thirty-four years of
strenuous fighting.

“ . . . I start what is to me a comparatively new life,”
he said. “ I think that the position of Chairman of the
London Sessions is of greater importance than many
people realize. It is a position in which it is possible
to do good. I find myself transferred from the fighting
ranks of the finest profession in the world to occupy this
seat where I shall certainly strive to emulate the examples
which have been set by my great predecessors. I shall
take great joy in watching you struggle as I have struggled,
and I shall try to hold the scales of Justice between you
and between all men fairly. To-day, as a fighting member
of the Bar—I bid you farewell.”

It was a great wrench: he knew he was leaving the

297

arena for the serenity of judicial office. Everyone knew
that with more than twelve years’ experience as Chairman
of the Essex Quarter Sessions he would make an excellent
chairman. Even when he tried rating appeals, about
which he knew next to nothing, counsel who appeared
before him were amazed how quickly he picked up points
and how he knew when to keep his mouth shut. He
admitted that he found it difficult not to intervene and to
restrain himself from making jokes which he felt would
sound undignified coming from the Bench. He was
most impressed with the kindliness of Sir Herbert Wilber-
force, the Deputy Chairman, of John Dix, the Clerk of
the Peace, and every official from the highest to the lowest.
He made up his mind that he would enjoy the change
and the rest to the full, take all his holidays at Boreham,
and go abroad in his car, although he knew that his stan¬
dard of living must be severely restricted in the future.
“ I am so happy here, I doubt whether I shall even put in
for the Recordership,” he said.

On October 22, he went as usual to Colchester for the
Oyster Feast, with his wife. It was the last time he
was to speak at that occasion. He had never been so
gay or so successful with his witticisms. He said he had
noticed an unusual number of police officers, and presumed
that immediately after lunch he would be arrested for
obtaining lunch under false pretences, since he was no
longer Recorder of Colchester. He had another story
about his weight—and this time it was a true one. He
was proposing the toast of “ A better humanity,” and
with a change to a serious note, he said that those in a
position of administering justice must not be too cen-

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c e

) )

sorious; they must consider the circumstances that had
brought the defendant into the dock. “ I do believe,”
he said, “ that one has the power—and I hope to be able
to exercise it—of doing some good to better humanity
in the humble sphere in which I work. . .

The week-end of October 31 he spent at Boreham, and
it was on Saturday and Sunday that he wrote some hun¬
dred or so of his letters. On Monday he must expect
a busy day; he had arranged to clear up his private
papers in his chambers—a sad task, for it meant the end
of his associations with that well-beloved room. In the
evening he was to speak at the dinner of the National
Greyhound Racing Society at the Dorchester Hotel. On
the Tuesday, London Sessions opened, and thereafter he
had made appointments throughout the week; old friends
were to lunch with him—among them Sir Archibald
Bodkin. There was a first night to go to, and perhaps
he would have more time now for the Garrick Club, for
a more leisurely enjoyment of the company of his friends,
without the thought at the back of his mind that he ought
to be at home reading a brief. . . .

The visit to Temple Gardens was an emotional experi¬
ence. All day he stayed there, talking to Hollis, his clerk.
“ We had a happy day,” said Hollis. “ Sir Henry was
as cheerful as ever, and we just talked. But at the end
of the day I did notice that he was tired, and he told me
that he was going to a public dinner, and said : * I think
I shall give up dinners when I have to speak; they are
too much strain.’ ”

There were many who, reading his letters that he posted
that day, believed that these expressions of his gratitude

*99

contained a hint that he knew he was not to live for long.
Many read a “ premonition of death ” into the words:
“ I shall now get some rest after years of overwork, and
perhaps it may lead somewhere, one never knows.” The
supposition was perhaps natural, but in point of fact
Curtis was relieved once he had made his decision, and
was a happy man. He had plans for the future, and was
looking forward in particular to an engagement on
November 17, when he was to dine with Derek to celebrate
the triple anniversary.

Yet there were other matters which made Curtis-Ben-
nett’s last acts appear more than significant. He seemed
anxious to conduct a general stock-taking of his position
as well as to bid farewell to the atmosphere of Middle
Temple Lane that had been his whole life. Derek visited
him in chambers, and with him checked the exact value
of the shares that were in the safe, from the fi na ncial
columns of The Times. He thought he had scrip to the
value of £20,000. He found that their value to date
was a matter of £1,000 more. He was moving the scrip
to the safe in his room at London Sessions, and packed
his bag, with Derek helping. As he packed it he showed
his son an envelope and said: “ This is for you to read
when I’m dead.” His will and securities he packed too,
and queried whether to take the bag to Deanery Street
that night or to collect it next morning on the way to
Sessions.

That day, he took a last look round the pleasant room
to which he expected to return only as a visitor. Then
he said that he wanted Derek to have his desk that had
been his father’s, and his furniture, and said : “ It belonged

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to your grandfather; it’s belonged to me for years. We
haven’t done so badly. I hope you’ll have it in your
room.”

He was thinking of himself and his father before him,
and all the great dramas that had begun in that room, in
Plowden Buildings, and in Pump Court. It was a sad
moment, and he knew he would miss the exhilaration of
battle.

He was tired when he left, and Hollis offered to carry
his bag out to the car. But he refused, and carried it
himself, and as he got into the car, confirmed an appoint¬
ment for the next day with his clerk.

By half-past seven he was changed and at the Dorchester,
where he was to speak at the dinner of the Greyhound
Racing Society. The speech was in response to the Toast
of “ Our Guests,” and he had told Lord Donegall and
Mr. Arthur Elven, who sat next to him, that he was as
“ nervous as a kitten.” Mr. Elvin asked how it was
possible that he, who was accustomed to addressing judges
and juries on more vital matters almost every day of his
life, felt nervous at the prospect of a speech at a public
dinner.

“ The person who is not nervous before such an
ordeal,” said Curtis, “ is not able to make much of a
speech.”

He rose to speak at twenty minutes to eleven, and his
first words were : “ I feel this is the last time I shall speak
in public.” Little did he realize how prophetic those
words were. He made a worthy speech, timed perfectly ;
a new joke about his size; the audience in laughter; a
snapshot taken of him pausing while the audience around

301

CURTIS

c e

> >

him were laughing; and the nest moment the end had
come.

A few feet away from his brother. Sir Noel Cuttis-
Bennett, he suddenly lurched to one side and fell on the
ground. It was over instantaneously, a coronary throm¬
bosis. He who during his life was in so many sensational
events, caused the greatest sensation of all in the mann er
of his passing. For one who had achieved so much, it
was a magnificent end. At the height of his career, he
had taken judicial office, having long thought that such
a post would be denied him. He had not had time to
feel the financial stringency which would fall upon him.
He would only know that it was pleasant at his job, and
that he liked it. He had had no stroke which would
paralyse him so far as work was concerned to keep him
alive in a life worse than death.

One moment his friends were laughing round him and
the next moment he was gone—in exactly the same way
as, on June 2, 1913, his father had gone at the Mansion
House: in the same way that his greatest friend, Freke
Palmer, had gone on January 20, 1932.

In the Courts of Justice in London and the Provinces,
references were made that showed the unanimous sense
of loss that was felt. At London Sessions, Sir Herbert
Wilberforce said: “ We were proud when Sir Henry
consented to preside here. We confidently hoped that
unless he was called to some higher office—which
seemed probable—he would sit here for many years and
increase the reputation of the London Sessions. He was
a great advocate and he might have become a great Judge,
and we lament and deplore his loss.”

302

A NEW LIFE

c c

5 ?

His friend, Mr. St. John Hutchinson, K.C., was heart¬
broken, saying he had lost the greatest friend he had ever
had. At the Essex Assies, Mr. Justice Hawke said : “ He
was one of the greatest advocates of his time and will
be remembered in more Courts of Assizes and Quarter
Sessions than anyone else. It would not be too much
to say that the members of the Bar and others hold him
in an affection that amounted to love. . .

He was buried in the churchyard at Kelvedon, in Essex,
in the next grave to his father, in the same churchyard
as his grandparents. He had obtained the faculty for the
grave from the Bishop of Chelmsford shortly after his
father’s death. And on November 7 his friends and his
colleagues of the Temple, Judges and counsel and solicitors
and their clerks, and officials of the Courts, paid tribute to
him at a memorial service at Temple Church.

An astonishing variety of tributes greeted his bio¬
graphers’ request for memories of Sir Henry. Among
the hundreds of letters paying tributes to his courage
and his kindliness, there were many recollections of those
stories with which his name will ever be associated. One
correspondent, indeed, wrote saying how sad it was that
Curtis had not lived those few weeks to December 22,
when he would have known that the name of Curtis-
Bennett was to be carried on to another generation. On
that date Margot, his daughter-in-law, gave birth to a son
weighing 10 lb. “ What a joke Curtis would have made
of his weight—he could not have resisted it.”

Into fifty-seven years of life he had crammed the experi¬
ence of three-quarters of a century. He achieved great
success and had lived his life to the full.

303

CURTIS

c c

? 5

He had known both joy and misery to its fullest extent;
he had shown courage and endurance; he had earned and
deserved the gratitude of many. There are many who,
going into the Old Bailey or the London Sessions, or
perhaps some Assize Court in the country, will pause and
think and miss that ringing voice, that cheery face, that
happy s mil e, that friendly pat on the back, that cheerful
anecdote, that wonderful cross-examination, that brilliant
speech and that great and kindly man.

3°4

INDEX

A

Abortion cases, 88
Adele, Helen, 240-4
Amonderain, Raymonde, 61-2
Anderson, Percy, trial of, 280-1
Ansley, George, 188
Arkell-Smith, Mrs., trial of, 25 2-4
Armstrong, Major Herbert Rouse,
trial of, 122-33; appeal against
verdict on, 139—41
Armstrong, Mrs., dog on grave
of, 125—6

Austin, Tex, 182-4
Avory, Mr. Justice, 42,105, 219,
267-8 ; and trial of Vaquier,
188,191-2; and trial of Mahon,
199-200,202 ; and trial of Mrs.
Hayley Morriss, 225-8; and
trial of Goddard, 250-1; and
Hatry case, 257-8

B

Bankes, Sir John Eldon, 240
“ Barker, Colonel,” case of, 252-4
Barrie, Peter Christian, trial of, 91
Bennett, Arnold, 153
Beresford, Tristram, 85
Bevan, Stuart, 81
Birkenhead, Lord, 33,142

Birkett, Norman, 237-9, 2 7 8 >
fends Hatry, 255
Biron, Sir Chartres, 235
Bishop, Stanley, 165
Blackpool, penny-in-slot machine
at, 266-8

Bodkin, Sir Archibald, 44-5, 63,
81, 239, 255, 299
Boreham, Essex, 65, 75
Bosanquet, S. R. C., 124
Bottomley, Horatio, 171
Bournonville, Eva de, trial of,
57-9

Breeckow, Georg T., trial of, 5 2-4
Brewster Sessions, 36-7
Bronte, Dr., evidence of, 207-8
Buschman, Fernando, trial of,
51-2

Bywaters, Frederick, trial of,
143-9, i6 °-5

C

Cameron, Elsie, murder of, 204-
213

Cancellor, Mr., 236
“ Canteen Case,” 36
Capsoni, Camillo, 276
Cassels, J. D., 27, 101, 103,
180,278,297; defends Mahon,

305

x

INDEX

Cassels, J. D., continued—

198, 200-2; defends Norman
Thorne, 204, 207-8, 210-13 5
defends Fox, 263
Chelmsford, election at, 176-80
Circuit system, 220-1
Clanwaring, Thomas, trial of,
107-8

Clarke, Sir Percival, 242-4, 249,
*5 3 > 2 94

Clifford, Lord de, 284; trial of,
285-90

Cochran, Charles B., and Rodeo
case, 182-4

Coercion, doctrine of, 119-22
Colchester, Recordership at, 252 ;

Oyster Luncheon at, 252, 298
Coleman, Frederick, 22
Coleridge, Lord, 81
Collins, Chief Inspector, and
Irene Savidge, 237-40
Coventry, Sir Reginald, 92
Criminal Bar, 218-20
Criminal Justice Act (1925), 121
Crocker, William Charles, 276
Cross-examination, art of, 224
Crotch, Walter, trial of, 108-11
Crowborough, murder at, 204-13
Crumbles, Eastbourne, murder of
Irene Monro at, 101-3 ; mur¬
der of Emily Kaye at, 196-202
Curtis-Bennett, Ann, 36, 177
Curtis-Bennett, Derek, 16, 242,
274, 300 ; called to Bar, 234 ;
opposes father, 282; in France,
291

Curtis-Bennett, Lady (mother), 3 5
Curtis-Bennett, Lady (nee Dangar),
7-9, 11, 16 ; divorce of, 232-4

Curtis-Bennett, Lady (nee Jeffries),
254,291-2

Curtis-Bennett, Margot, 303

Curtis-Bennett, Sir Henry (senior),
2-3 ; son appears before, 9, 3 5;
death of, 35, 302

Curtis-Bennett, Sir Henry, in¬
creasing weight of, 1, 38, 168,
260-1 ; ill-health of, 1, 47, 231,
261, 291-2; at Cambridge,
2-3; as cycle-racer, 3, 38-9;
diary of, 4-5, 7-9, 11-12 ; and
choice of career, 5-6, 15-16;
as amateur actor, 6-7 ; called to
Bar, 7-8 ; courtship of, 7-9;
early briefs of, 9-10, 13, 15,
217; marriage of, 11; account-
books of, 11-13, 23, 26, 91, 261,
296 ; advises young barristers,
14-15 ; son born to, 16; as
motorist, 17-18, 24-5, 27, 31,
96, 126 ; for defence in murder
trials, 19-20, 26, 96-100, 116,
117, 122 et seq. , 139-49, 158-
166, 185-94, 228-9 > motoring
cases of, 21-3, 28-32, 40-1,
103-5,269-73,277-9,284-9°;
in chambers of his own, 27;
charged with speeding, 29-30;
licensing briefs of, 35, 36-8,
172, 259, 282-3 > audacity of,
37-41, 44-6; his ability to
make friends, 42-3 ; his atti¬
tude to jury, 43-4, 112-14; at
outbreak of war, 47 ; spy cases
of, 48 et seq .; Secret Service
work of, 63 et seq .; as judge of
character, 69 ; lost practice of,
75 ; examines suspected spies.

INDEX

7579 ; " takes silk/’ 80 ; fees
paid to, by Freke Palmer, 81-2 ;
defends a dog, 82-5 ; appears
in Lords, 85-7, 285-90; for
prosecution in murder trials,
101-3, 107-8, 199 et seq. y 278,
280-1 ; “ Hyde Park ” cases of,
I0 5 ~ 7 , * 43 , 149-5 5 , 235-6;
and Marshall-Hall, 111-12 ; as
a speaker, 114-15, 179, 284 ; in
House of Commons, 115, 180-
182, 231-3 ; receives knight¬
hood, 117-18 ; great speech of,
126 ; jests about his size, 168-
173 ; witticisms of, 173-4 ; his
kindliness, 174-5 ; stands for
Parliament, 176-82; on “the
finest profession, 59 214-19 ; and
client pleading Guilty, 214-15 ;
posts offered to, 218 ; special
briefs of, 221, 230; clerks of,
211-12 ; his methods of cross-
examination, 223-4; in dis¬
agreement with Judge, 225-
228 ; desires Recordership of
London, 231, 293, 295 ; deputy
Chairman of Essex Quarter
Sessions, 231; divorce of,
232-5; made Bencher, 234;
defends constables, 240-5 ; Re¬
corder of Colchester, 252, 271;
second marriage of, 25 4; pleas¬
ures of, 260; conscientious¬
ness of, 261-2 ; his advice to
motorists, 271, 278 ; Chairman
of Essex Quarter Sessions, 282;
opposed by son, 282 ; goes to
France, 291-2 ; and reduction
of income, 293, 295 ; in Scot¬

land, 293-4; accepts Chair¬
manship of London Sessions,
294-8 ; leaves his chambers,
299-301 ; death of, 302
Curtis-Bennett, Sir Noel, 5, 302

D

Dangar, Elsie Eleanor, see Curtis-
Bennett, Lady

Daniels, Edmund, trial of, 255-8
Darling, Lord, 88, 180; and
coercion of wife, 119-21 ; and
Armstrong trial, 124, 130, 139
Davies, A. C. Fox, 107
Deane, Bargrave, 81
Dix, John, 298
Dixon, John, trial of, 255
DonegaLl, Lord, 301
Douglas, James, 154-5
Douglas-Pennant Inquiry, 85-7
“ D. S. Windell Bank Fraud, 55 28

E

Elliott, George, 26, 28
Elven, Arthur, 301

F

Factor, Jacob, 275
Fahmy Bey, Prince, shooting of,
166-7

Farrow, Thomas, 108, 110-11
Farrow’s Bank Case, 108-11
Faulks, Neville, 287
Field, Jack Alfred, trial of, 101-3
Finger-prints, as evidence, 18-21
Finlay, Mr. Justice, 204, 212
Fitzroy, Sir Almeric, case of, 112,
143, 149-55

3°7

INDEX

Moller, Major N. H., 177
Money, Sir Leo Chiozza, cases of,
236-8,277

Monro, Irene, murder of, 101-3
Moore, Beaufoi, 297
Morriss, Hayley, trial of, 225-8
Motoring, early days of, 17-18,
24-5 ; cases, 21-3, 28-32, 40-1,
103-5, 269-73, 277-9 ^ exceed¬
ing the speed limit, 22 ; police
and, 30-2

Muir, Sir Richard, 19, 26, 33, 81,
149, 152, 219; and motoring
case, 105 ; and trial of Ronald
True, 135, x37
Muller, Carl, trial of, 48-9
Mullins, Claude, 42
Muskett, Herbert, 149

N

Nation, Carrie, 27
Neve, Eric, 280-1
Night clubs, 247-9, Z 5 I

O

O’Callaghan, T. M., 297
Oliver, Roland, 166, 225, 256
Oxford Street drinking anomaly,
282-3

P

“Painted Horse Case,” 91-6
Palmer, Freke, 9, 16, 166, 217;
fees paid by, 81-2 ; death of,
273 - 4 , 3° 2

Parker, Frederick, 278
Paul, Brenda Dean, 273

Peel, Captain and Mrs., trial of,
118-22

Persse, Henry, 93
Police, evidence of, 31-2, 235-40,
269-71 ; scandals concerning,
240-5, 247-51

Pollock, Sir Ernest, 123, 129, 140
Portslade Shop Murder, 278
Priestley, J. C., 81
Prize-fight, case to prevent, 32-4
Probert, Albert, 278

R

Rayner, Horace George, trial of,
26

Ribuffi, Luigi, trial of, 247, 249
Richards, Edward, murder of,
228-9

Richardson, Ryder, 287
Ries, Irving Guy, trial of, 54-5
Robert, trial of, 28
Roberts, G. D., 242
Robinson, S. W., 177
Rodeo Prosecution, 182-4
Romain, A. A., 274
Roome, H. D., 188
Rosenthal, Robert, trial of, 49-50
Routh, H. G., 19-20
Royat, visit to, 291-2
Russell, Earl, 21
Russell, Sir Charles, 81
Russian Revolution, official fore¬
knowledge of, 66-9

S

Said Ali, murder of, 246-7
Sallows, John, trial of, 30-1
Salter, Clavell, 81
San Dwe, trial of, 246-7

310

INDEX

Sasun, Doctor Devi, 88
Savage (Savidge)* Irene, 236-7
“ Savidge Inquiry,” 237-40
Scotland Yard, and Savidge In-
quiry, 237-40

“Security Services,” 49, 56, 59,

69, 71-4

Shearman, Sir Montague, 81,148,

159, 161

Sibley, Dorothy, 278
Simon, Sir John, 32-4, 294
“ Society Turf Sensation,” 118-
122

Somervell, Sir Donald, 287
South-Eastern Circuit, 17
Spies, trials of, 48-62 ; examina¬
tion of suspected, 75-9
Spilsbury, Sir Bernard, evidence
of, 200, 207-8, 210-11, 265-6
Stanhope, Lord, and Douglas-
Pennant Inquiry, 85-7
Stern, F. A., 144, 147
Stewart, Ian Maxwell, trial of,
228-30

Stratton, Albert, trial of, 18-21
“ Street offence ” case, 235
Swift, Mr. Justice, 247

T

Tabor, Albert, trial of, 256
Thompson, Mrs. Edith, trial of,
144-9, 158-66; letters of,

147-8, 162-4

Thomson, Sir Basil, and sus¬
pected spies, 54, 56-8, 75-8
Thorne, Norman, trial of, 204-13
Trowbridge, murder at, 228
True, Ronald, trial of, 13 3 et seq .;
appeal against verdict on, 141-2

Turf Conspiracy trial, 91-5
Turner, Mrs. Dorothy, 149-52

U

Upjohn, W. M., 81

V

Vachell, C. F., 123
Vaquier, Jean Pierre, trial of,
185-94

Vick, Russell, 256
W

Wallace, Sir Robert, 15 5
Ward, Barrington, 81
Wells, Bombardier Billy, 32-4
Wembley Exhibition, Rodeo at,
182-4; sale of rock at, 250
Wertheim, Lizzie, trial of 52-3
White, James, 32-3
Whiteley, Cecil, no, 160, 284;

and Hatry case, 255
Whiteley, William, murder of, 26
Wiesz, Norman, trial of, 92-5
Wilberforce, Sir Herbert, 298, 302
Wild, Sir Ernest, 157, 254
Winckworth, John, 177, 221
Withers, J. J., 240
Woking, murder committed at,

185-94

Y

Young, Filson, 145, 148
Young, Olive, murder of, 133 et
seq.

Z

Zeffertt, C. S., 91

311